A Force of Nature
by RhiannonUK
Summary: Post Alkali Lake. Traumatised by Jean's death, Logan focuses on the one thing keeping him sane revenge. Xavier embarks upon a plan to divert Logan from committing murderous retribution.
1. Poetry

**Disclaimer: **I own the entire Marvel universe, particularly Wolverine, but only in my dreams. I have but two brass pennies to rub together so suing me means I'll have to cancel my subscriptions to diverse Marvel titles.

This is my first ever piece of fan fiction. I have no idea how it will be received so constructive criticism is very welcome, especially from old hands of the fanfic game.

The story is Logan centric, written in first person singular and, although the first chapter is clichéd angst, subsequent chapters (providing you want 'em,) will explore a friendship based pairing that seems to have been ignored by fans. There is strong language because that's the kind of guy Logan is.

**Chapter 1: Poetry**

A barroom philosopher once told me that the world and its people are a poem. He was in the glorious state of falling down drunkenness at the time so I didn't laugh in his face too hard. Besides, he wasn't completely wrong. Just mostly wrong. Sure, you can convince me the world, especially the untamed wilderness, is poetry in action but you can stuff humanity and all the unnatural steel, plastic and concrete shit that comes right along with 'em.

I love the wild, solitary places. Places where you can suck in air as pure as nature intended. To me, this is the real world, not the suffocating towns and cities where people are packed too closely together with their cars and houses, domestic appliances and high-rises; where their heavier than air stink envelops them in a poisonous, choking shroud.

The wilderness is alive; rugged and vital. Every season has its own flavour; its own aroma; its own voice; its own textures. It defines life and defies human endeavour. It is my cocoon against hatred and prejudice.

Xavier's extensive estate has its own little piece of wilderness; a tiny stanza of poetry. Tonight the moon is new and faceless, the darkness sings softly with the furtive rustling of nocturnal critters and the dry creaking of branches. Concealed by the inky shadows cast by a stand of young elms, my greatly enhanced senses are alive, testing the breeze and savouring the transitional scents of life emerging from winter death. The breeze is sweet with the smell of fresh rain on grass, of rising sap and the production of chlorophyll inside the fattening buds. The world is waiting, poised on the cusp of exploding into life. Yet inside I am as cold and dead as the leaf-mould beneath my feet.

There's fucking poetry for you.

I can't sleep. The feral creature inside me is too restless, aggravated to the point of fury by the visual stimulus of my nightmares; nightmares that are growing worse. The familiar pain and anguish of the enforced adamantium process still haunts me but now too does the pale, dead face of Jean. She calls to me with her blue, dead lips. Tendrils of red hair writhe around her head and face like snakes. The water surrounding her is a sea of golden flames yet she is cold; distant; her eyes milky white pearls that sear my soul with their frozen acid stare. The stare is terrible, an accusation. I failed her and now she's there every damn time I close my eyes.

Don'tcha think my mind's fucked up enough Red? Ain't I done enough suffering already?

Seeing her dead like that I want to scream. I want to rend; to maim. I want to inflict pain and horror. I want to track down Magneto and flay him alive for the way his fucking machine warped changes in Jean's mutant DNA and almost killed a kid I swore to protect. More, I want to sink my claws knuckle deep into the bodies of the people who reduced me to an amnesiac psychotic killing machine and tear them inside out. Stryker might be dead but not the bastards who financed the Alkali Lake facility.

But I don't know who they are.

Xavier knows. I'd bet my fucking life on it. He knew Stryker. Taught his kid. He raided Stryker's files. Dollars against dimes he knows who Stryker's paymasters are. But he can't tell me. Won't tell me. He won't tell me because he knows I'll walk right out of here and hunt the motherfucking sons of bitches down and kill them like vermin. And no brainiac pacifist would want that on his conscience no matter how much the bloody retribution was deserved.

I can't help wondering what else lies undisclosed in Stryker's files. Does my past exist as hard copy?

A familiar sensation prickles my consciousness, like a honed blade sliding over silk. He must've sensed the outpouring of my negative emotions. I've learned to shield my mind from telepathic intrusion and detection by flooding it with feral thoughts. Apparently it renders me almost invisible on the psychic plane but I only have Xavier's word for that. He's a tricky, evasive bastard and I can't bring myself to trust him to the extent that Summers and 'Ro seem to. Cursing the intrusion, I allow my tattle-tale surface thoughts to slide into a deep, dark pool of feral sensory analysis.

_Logan._

Not here. I'm not here. Go dish out your cryptic shit to someone who appreciates it Charlie.

Like a sigh the prickling sensation sloughs away and I'm alone in the dark once more.

It's late. Through the trees the school's north wing, the dormitory block, towers over the landscape, its stone façade bathed in the silver glow of the ornamental security lights. Most of the windows are dark save for a handful whose drapes are backlit by the pale illumination of a reading lamp. I wait and smoke, idly watching my wispy grey exhalations dissipate into the night. One by one the lights are extinguished as the older kids finally turn in.

Rogue's room has been in darkness for some time. She's happy here, with new friends and a purpose in life. She has Mr. Frosty, a decent kid who worships the ground she walks on. So why does she hanker after a case-hardened killer whose mind is a desolate abyss brimful with pain and violence? Whose body has been twisted into something less than human? Does she really need a brute like me watching over her?

Since Jean's death the kid has tried to comfort me, tried her damnedest to distract me with her child/woman wiles and her innocence. I know that she loves me, that her affections are more than mere infatuation or gratitude or pity. Does she really believe that, in her sweet naivety, she could ever restore what has been reduced to cold grey cinders? Does she not realise I am unworthy, incapable of giving her what she craves?

For a brief period I bathed in Jeannie's radiance, revelled in the desire I knew she felt for me. With her voice she denied her feelings but her body, her scent, the taste of that one brief kiss, made her a liar. Having looked into the dark pit of my mind she hadn't flinched, just accepted the brutality of my life, what I am. This magnificent, flame-haired woman took my atrophied soul and infused it with hope. For the first time I had a reason to reach out to another living, feeling being; to shake off the cold shell insulating me from the pain of meaningful human contact and actually dare to love her. And in one devastating act of selflessness she destroyed me. Imprisoned in the 'plane and reduced to an ineffectual, horrified bystander by her will, I watched her die. I saw the life crushed from her by the floodwaters she'd held impossibly at bay and I died right along with her.

I fell profoundly in love with a woman I barely knew, a woman whose gentle touch awoke something inside me that I was too afraid to acknowledge. Now she's gone and the grief is killing me. How is it possible to suffer such pain and not go insane?

Before Laughlin City, before fate set Rogue and the X Men in my path, my needs were simple; fight, fuck, drink, move on. No past. No future. No regrets. Yet here I am in civilised Westchester, emotionally ravaged and vulnerable, unwilling to return to the cast iron numbness I'd worked so hard to achieve for fifteen years. And hating myself for my weakness.

The light in Xavier's study still burns brightly. I know he's waiting too. And 'Ro with him. She's been in there all evening. Waiting.

Time passes, an hour maybe. I hear the purr of the Jeep's engine approaching along Graymalkin Lane long before it arrives at the tall electronic gates that separate the school from the outside world. The soft whir of the gate's motor responds to the security code punched in by the driver and the vehicle accelerates gently through the gate, the twin beams of its headlights raking across immaculate lawns and stabbing through the stands of trees lining the sweeping curves of the drive.

The Jeep is one of a fleet of vehicles Xavier keeps on hand for school field trips and extracurricular domestic use. The driver is Scott Summers, boy scout, anal retentive and Fearless Leader of Xavier's X-Men, returning from whatever errand Xavier has sent him on. The Jeep disappears from view, hidden by the dormitory wing. Tyres grind on gravel indicating he's driven right up to the mansion's main entrance. The engine falls silent. A few moments later the hollow echo of three of the Jeep's doors slamming shut reaches my ears. I catch an inaudible snatch of Summers' voice and a soft female voice I don't recognise. Both voices fade as Summers and his passengers enter the mansion. Ten minutes later Summers returns to the Jeep and guns its engine to life; gravel crunches and the muted roar Dopplers off southwards of the mansion, toward the extensive garages and stables.

More time passes and eventually the light in Xavier's study goes out. He and 'Ro are obviously through waiting. Unwilling to surrender to the horrors of sleep I make my way back to the mansion, keeping to the shadows. On a whim I head towards the garage. There's an all night bar just beyond Salem Centre's city limits where the liquor is cheap, strong and strips membranes as it burns its way down a man's throat. Maybe I can sink enough to keep the nightmares at bay for a while.


	2. Breaking the Rules

**Disclaimer: **I own the entire Marvel universe, particularly Wolverine, but only in my dreams. I have but two brass pennies to rub together so suing me means I'll have to cancel my subscriptions to diverse Marvel titles.

This is my first ever piece of fan fiction. I have no idea how it will be received so constructive criticism is very welcome, especially from old hands of the fanfic game.

The story is Logan centric, written in first person singular and, although the first chapter is clichéd angst, subsequent chapters (providing you want 'em,) will explore a friendship based pairing that seems to have been ignored by fans. There is strong language because that's the kind of guy Logan is.

There is some exposition in this chapter but it is there to help me get inside the character's head and the interpretation I have put on Logan's fighting skills and the way he perceives his opponents will be fully explained in a later fic should my enthusiasm live that long (it's in your hands). Apologies for going over heavily trodden ground but I promise you, the original story will begin in chapter three.

My warmest thanks to **Wolflver** for her encouragement and my very first review.

It would be nice to receive other reviews, even if it's to say you don't like the story or how it might be improved. If nothing else, at least I'll know it's being read. Please, people, the noob craves input!

**Chapter 2: Breaking the Rules**

It's just after 4 a.m. and I'm prowling the grounds near the school again. A combination of rage induced adrenalin and my healing factor has scotched a serious attempt to drink myself insensible and right now I'm treading a thin line between reason and an intense desire to damage something or someone.

Cage fighting serves as a valuable and necessary safety valve for my aggression as well as providing a regular income. I don't have that right now and nightmare induced sleep deprivation, mixed with the raw, violent tension building up inside me, has the potential to explode into a body count if I don't deal with it. Taking out my aggression on members of the boozing public ain't the acceptable thing to do in civilised Westchester so I settle for some_thing_. Beneath the school is an extensive hi-tech complex that serves as a base of operations for Xavier's team of mutant gooders. Part of that complex houses a training facility with special effects that would put a mega budget science fiction movie to shame – the Danger Room. Stupid fucking name, like something out of a comic, but it's somewhere I can unleash my aggression without harming anyone.

So, I have a plan. Now to make good on it. I head for the nearest entrance, the kitchen.

One thing I've learned since coming here is that my fighting skills, while more than adequate to hold my own in any number of cage fights, leave a lot to be desired when throwing down with other mutants. Sure, for fifteen years I've been Mister Cock-of-the-walk, all adamantium reinforced brute strength and a slick sideline in slice 'n dice to go. It ain't enough. In the few weeks since I crossed paths with the X-Men, I've had the shit kicked out of me by a tree-slinging maniac with a personal hygiene problem, an old man and two skinny women and I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

I'm better than that.

Deep down inside I know I am.

So where is it when I need it?

Sabretooth nailed me the first time because I was groggy from kissing windshield the hard way. It rankles that I needed Summers' help to take the bastard down during the rematch but, shackled to Magneto's machine, Rogue's life expectancy was measured in minutes and I had no choice but to pansy out. I've heard rumours Sabre'd survived the fall on Liberty Island. If that's the case I still owe him for making me eat spruce.

Physically Magneto is no match for me but my metal bonded skeleton renders me particularly vulnerable to his powers. He has the ability to take me apart piece by piece. I'm gonna have to devise a way to gut him before he gets the chance. Ain't gonna be easy.

Mystique is the real shocker.

Three hundred pounds of brute strength and two sets of razor sharp, unbreakable nine inch claws were outclassed by the snake lady's hard hitting gymnastic moves. Given sufficient room to manoeuvre she brushed off my sustained attacks like I was a fucking mosquito. Name suits her too. It's a complete fucking mystery to me as to why, when she had me cold, she backed off rather than move in for the kill. More contradiction - she's fast, she's smart so what was she thinking getting herself close enough to become shish kebab? And what the hell was the business in the tent all about? Is the bitch sweet on me for chrissake? It don't add up.

Going head to head against the kid with the adamantium manicure was an epiphany. Like me she had a healing factor. Like me she had been dipped in adamantium. Unlike me she had the moves of a martial arts master and could throw herself, and Rag Doll Me, around with an athletic skill that defied gravity. This despite the fact she was half my size and weighed down by nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of dense steel alloy. Pitting her against me was akin to pitting a sleek leopard against a lumbering mastiff. There was no real contest and she had me on the ropes way too fast. Fucking unbelievable. I came out on top because I got lucky and now she's dead instead of me. At the end the lucid expression in those deep brown eyes indicated she'd regained control of her mind, finally freed from Stryker's chemical slavery by the pain of the spontaneous adamantium infusion. Then she died in the hardest way possible, cooked from the inside as molten metal withered, then replaced her internal organs. I had no choice. I'm glad it wasn't me but I wish it hadn't been her either. I killed a kid Stryker had created in my image. Some fucking victory, huh?

Stryker's killer babe taught me something valuable though. Now I know that I can be far greater than the sum of my parts. I just gotta work out how.

The size of a large gymnasium, uniform grey and featureless save for the overhead observation booth. That's the Danger Room. Its blandness is a deception and it ain't called the Danger Room for nothing. Here the team cohesion is forged; skills are tested and improved. It ain't enough. Regulated sessions don't give me what I need, only how to disable rather than dismember and how I should follow One-eye's orders in simulated combat. Waste o' fucking time. People come at me with murder on their mind and in their eyes I ain't gonna worry about their feelings when I slice 'em wide open. If Summers had been a little less careful with his aim on Liberty Island and killed Magneto instead of winging the motherfucker, he could have saved the entire world a load of grief.

Stripping off to the waist I throw my jacket and shirt into a corner. Kurt and 'Ro were the last to use the room so I expect a half way decent workout.

"Run last program," I demand of the grey emptiness. I'm breaking one of Xavier's cardinal rules of safety here; this is a solo run and there ain't anyone in the control booth monitoring the session. Like I give a shit.

A vaguely female and obviously synthetic voice grinds out in monotone, "Combat drone simulation level six activated. Prepare to engage." Apparently the computer don't give a shit neither.

Suddenly I'm standing in a bleak, rain-slick and dimly lit alley in some shabby warehouse district. Overflowing dumpsters placed at irregular intervals add atmosphere to the general cruddiness. Shadowed doorways gape menacingly and litter is being blown around in aimless clichéd circles Overhead the sky is a yawning cavern of stormy darkness. I guess the geek who designed this program has seen way too much film noir.

A full sensory suite has been programmed into this scenario and the place stinks of damp, decay and rotting trash. The air throbs faintly with an electronic hum that sets my teeth on edge. Whatever is waiting for me is somewhere up ahead so I move forward, keeping to the shadows and occasional cover provided by the dumpsters, remaining alert to any threat that might sneak up behind me or fall from above.

The humming is louder now and I test the air with my nose. Mixed in with the decay is the stench of ozone you get coming off electrical circuitry running hot and the slightly sickly odour of top grade mineral oil. The stink is wafting from one of two adjacent doorways maybe fifteen feet ahead and to my left. Crouching down behind a dumpster I unsheathe the claws of my right hand, ignoring the fire and ice pain as they break through the skin. There's no cover between the dumpster and the doorways on the other side of the alley so I pick up a handy piece of crumbling brick and lob it through the nearest doorway. A dull clang rings out as I hit pay dirt. Let battle commence.

What glides out of the shadows is a joke. For a head it has a flattened ovoid carapace roughly thirty inches in diameter and painted matt black. There's a red photoelectric sensor and a handful of antennas stuck out at random angles. Hanging stiffly beneath it are some bunched up spindly spider legs. It's maybe five feet tall all told and hovering about eighteen inches off the ground. The thing is depressingly familiar and I've seen scarier shit served up on a plate. Guess the unknown computer geek is a Star Wars fan too.

A dull red, low energy beam flares briefly and strikes the dumpster just above my head. I'm motionless and mostly under cover so one of the antennas must be an infra red detector. The drone is coming for me fast and I let it narrow the gap before launching myself towards it, keeping my head low but aiming high with the claws. Razor sharp adamantium connects with the narrow joint between the body and the legs and suddenly the legs are gone, falling in a tangled mass to the ground leaving the carapace hovering uncertainly at chest level. Twisting around fast I slap my left hand on top of the carapace and push down hard while bringing up my claws from beneath. The adamantium blades slice through the drone's shell with little resistance, shearing something vital that emits an echoing, metallic shriek as it dies. The carapace falls, trailing sparks and blue smoke, its baleful red eye fading to black.

The hair on my neck prickles to attention and my animal senses scream at me to drop and roll. I feel the dull heat of a beam scorch my cheek as a second drone zips out of the neighbouring doorway where it had been silently lurking. Sneaky! Thirty seconds later it's making scrap patties with its buddy.

Ten minutes and four more drones into the combat scenario, I still haven't broken into a sweat, let alone sated my need for carnage. A man can expend more energy raising a shot glass. Debris litters the floor and I kick contemptuously at a nearby lump of carapace I've carved off a drone. It skitters a few feet before coming to rest beneath a brick wall covered in streaks of moisture and dark green slime.

Beating up serial metal freaks with a non-existent functional threat ain't hardly therapeutic. It ain't giving me the workout I need. Time to up the ante.

"Increase threat to level ten."

"Activation denied. You are not authorised to modify safety parameters above level six."

Damn! New tactic required.

"Maintain level six. Increase threat frequency by five hundred percent."

"Activation denied. You are not authorised to modify safety parameters above accepted norm."

Damn and damn!

"New simulation. Activate program Brotherhood oh one three eight, level six."

"Activation denied. You are not authorised to modify the schedule."

"End program," I snarl as I sense another lumbering heap of scrap gliding up behind me. The scene evaporates like the morning dew. It spooks me to see something so solid and realistic do that. This freaky hard light technology really is something else.

I'm supposed to have full voice coded access to the Danger Room's control system. For some reason the computer doesn't recognise my voice activated commands above a certain level.

Well fuck that.


	3. Comin' at ya, runt!

I wanted to explore what might go on inside Logan's head when he goes berserk. Some part of him, his spark of humanity, must still be there when the animal is in charge. Observing. Commenting. Trying to avoid the tragedy of collateral damage.

Everything in italics, including speech-marked growls and howls, is Wolverine in feral mode. Logan's thoughts are in normal print, not speech-marked because they are unspoken thoughts. I hope it's not too confusing.

My thanks to MidLifeCrisis, sniktbezerker and joegood2003 for their encouraging compliments. I am so pleased you are all enjoying the story.

Special thanks to Minisinoo who's own formidable talent inspires me to do better. If you haven't discovered her work then I highly recommend you check out her portfolio right now.

It would be nice to receive other reviews, even if it's to say you don't like the story or how it might be improved. If nothing else, at least I'll know it's being read. Please, people, the noob craves input. Lots 'n' lots of input!

**Chapter 3: Comin' at ya, runt!**

"Load Logan zero zero one simulation."

"Simulation Logan zero zero one ready for activation."

This ain't no training simulation 'coz I'm not interested in fancy moves right now. Jeanie's death awoke something inside me that's festered way too long. It's a dark void threatening to engulf the tiny flame of hope Jeanie kindled in me. Ironically I've gotta put aside her gift so that I can preserve it. I'm going darkside; full-on feral berserker. I'm gonna cancel my civilised overrides and do serious grudge match on Sabretooth's holographic butt.

Unconditional surrender to my animal is out of the question. To relinquish all control and achieve a state of unchecked feral frenzy is not what this is about. Couple of hours tops is all I've got so I don't have the luxury of fighting 'til I drop. I just wanna relieve some tension before I burst. My rage is like a pressure cooker. If it can't vent steam it explodes. Kicking the shit out of something I hate, that hates back, is my safety valve. Cage fighting gave me that release. I didn't kill or permanently cripple and it paid well. All that changed when I became an X Man. The fights are fewer but more intense. More visceral. Certainly more lethal. Unfortunately, since Alkali Lake, they've been non-existent. And trying to cope with Jean's death has sent me into a deadly tailspin. If I crash and burn without dumping the excess fuel things are gonna get real ugly real fast. This Danger Room session is gonna be the grandpappy of all cage fights but with all bets off.

In the throes of a berserker rage my mind's got the ability to revert to a more primitive level allowing the beast to eclipse the man for the duration. I become a vessel of lethal intent, driven by a savagery so primal it scares the shit out of me. The tidal force of my will, though weakened, still exerts some influence. Unfortunately, there ain't no guarantees the brakes will work and the potential for collateral damage is the stuff of nightmare. It's saved my life more times'n I can count though.

Bleeding off my rage berserker style is fast and effective but extremely dangerous to anyone who gets in my way. I don't want someone walking in and getting skewered accidentally so I've dismantled the electronic lock and switched on the warning light in the hall outside. No one who ain't got a battering ram and a small regiment is gonna access the room 'til I'm finished.

I'm gonna find myself in a shitload of trouble for this unscheduled session. It's still early and last I checked there's only me and the school mouser not stacking zees. Being Saturday I expect it to stay that way for a while. Maybe I should've asked but a berserker rage ain't pretty and I don't want people seeing me at my worst unless it's necessary. It's just something I gotta do and if I'm caught I'll take whatever punishment Xavier or Summers shells out. Just so long as they don't give me detention.

"Run simulation."

"Logan zero zero one progressive simulation level six activated. Prepare to engage."

Grey walls shimmer briefly then morph into a weirdly illuminated forest. It's night time so why the bizarre cone of harsh, unnatural light transforming the slender tree trunks before me into a gigantic barcode? The source of the light is someway off in the distance and lost among the trees. The place is eerily familiar. I've been dumped into a location right out of the X Files. Great. Nice dramatic effect. I really appreciate the thoughtful gesture of having my night vision so completely fucked up. Me and the unknown geek are gonna have words.

Holokitty's in here with me somewhere. He's bigger and stinkier than me but when it comes to mean and vicious I'm gonna introduce his ass to a whole new definition of hurt. The avatar has a progressive mode – it learns; a concept the real Sabretooth would no doubt struggle with. The better I am, the better the avatar, the harder the fight. Can't crack the level six parameter but I sure as hell can push the envelope.

Inside my mind the animal slides seamlessly into place and takes the controls. I'm now occupying the passenger seat and buckled in for a rough ride. All my civilised constraints seep away like water in the desert.

_Freedom!_

_Free at last!_

_Where is he? Where is Cyber-Sabre? Wish he was for real._

_Nostrils dilate. Taste the breeze. Track him down. Eviscerate the bastard. Ain't the same but it'll do 'til I find him for real. _

_Wrong. All wrong. Scents are wrong. Sounds are wrong. Everything's WRONG!_

_Trees sway but the breeze stinks of old dust and metal. Stinks of INSIDE._

_I see jack pine. I smell ponderosa. What the fuck? _

_Animals call from close by. Where is their spoor? Where is their scent? Why do they not move or show themselves? No presence. Nothing! Except calls._

_Dead pine needles crushed by my feet. I can feel 'em; all springy and soft. I can hear 'em crunching and snapping beneath my boots. But where's the earthy smell of decay released by surface displacement? _

_My senses are lying to me. I can't trust them. This is bad. _

_Confusion. Disorientation._

Dumb Canucklehead. This ain't real. This is virtual. This is a game. Ya have'ta remember that. Get with it!

_Remember. Yes._

"Comin' for ya, runt!"

_A challenge._

_"RRRRARRRGH!"_ _I answer it._

The roar is full throated. My animal is having fun. So am I. Pity the simulation is lacking some vital elements.

_He's above me, maybe twenty feet up. I'm fucking sure he wasn't there a second ago, perched on a branch, glaring down with those hate-filled black pits he calls eyes. It sounds like ol' Sabretooth, looks like him too but don't stink like him. I smell acrid chemical sweat, not the gamey male musk I remember. Can't smell his hate. Can't smell his savagery. Can't smell his pumping adrenaline. No heartbeat. No gut noises. No body heat Can hear his boots scraping on the branch though. And his rawhide coat rasping like a saw against the bark. Like me, he's a predator, more animal than man. And just as dangerous. _

_I watch Sabretooth, watch for him tensing his muscles for a spring. Ain't happening. Ain't gonna happen I reckon. Can't read his intentions. No damn body language._

_Adrenaline burns through my veins in a glorious surge of power. I adopt an attack posture, unsheathe the claws._

SNICKT! _Pain. My hands are on fire with hot, pulsing pain. That's for fucking real._

"If them nose pickers are all ya got, runt, yer hardly worth the effort."

_He doesn't leap or jump. Just drops. Silent. Deadly. Yellow mane and open coat streaming out behind him. Fangs barred in a snarl. The talons on his massive hands poised to shred flesh. The sucker's making me a gift of himself._

_One step back. Another. Claws raised I find his soft belly. Stupid bastard impales himself and gravity does the work for me as I slice him open from groin to sternum. His innards glisten wetly as internal pressure squeezes them through the ruptured peritoneum. Loops of slimy, grey/blue coils slither down my forearms like greased snakes. Blood gushes. Can't smell it. Can't smell the viscera. Can't smell the sweet metallic tang of blood. Looks real and it damn well feels good._

Too fucking good. Not happy about where this is leading. Ain't got time for that kind of fun. Let's put the brakes on a little, huh?

_Nah. Lookit him hanging there, a limp dead weight with head lolling to one side. Impaled like a dumb shit. This is too easy. Foot on his chest I shove hard. Cyber-Sabre slides from my claws and crumples messily to the ground. He's melting away like mist in the sun._

_"RRRRRRAAAARRHH!"_

What, yer celebrating freebies now?

_Grrrrrrrr._

"Comin' for ya, runt!"

_Here he comes again. Cyber-Sabre resurrected, pristine and whole, circling towards me from my right flank. He's charging, bearing down on me fast with his hulking carcass, all claws and attitude. I stretch my lips into a feral half smile. The avatar might be on a learning curve, might not be allowed to cause me any great damage, but I aim to see that he learns to die hard._

Yeah.

_Lost track of time. Lost track of how many avatars I've trashed and how many bloody stripes his talons have given me. Can't remember feeling an adrenaline burn quite like this, not even on Liberty Island. It's exhilarating. Addictive. Seductive. Feral._

Get a grip asshole. This is a quick fix remember.

_Grrrrrrrr. Shut the fuck up why don'tcha._

"Comin' for ya, runt!"

_He's behind me, mere inches from my right ear. Why can't I feel his hot breath misting my skin? His reactions are lightning fast. Claws gouge ragged trails of agony along my spine. The wounds are superficial but flesh tears and I bleed out. More pain, an acid sting as I knit back together almost instantaneously. Staggering from the blow I twist away, just a step or two and use the centrifugal energy of the spin to deliver a vicious slash across his ribs. The impact is blunted by the rawhide coat snagging my claws but I still rake what passes for bone. Cyber-Sabre rocks on his feet._

_Catch him on the back end of my spin, kick low, sweeping the bastard's feet from underneath him. The force of the blow dumps him flat on his back on the ground. He don't stay there though. I recover my balance while he rolls with an agility that belies his size, vaults to his feet and advances on me. _

"Nice moves, motherfucker. Wanna try an' get it right this time?"

_"GRRRRRRAAAARRHHH!"_

Something inside me cracks wide open. With the intensity of a bomb, bloodlust explodes up from my gut, engulfing me in an organic hatred so pure it incinerates any vestige of control I have. Shit! This ain't good. Gotta apply the brakes real hard now. And it'll take all of my will to exert control. How the fuck do ya shift an immovable object when the irresistible force is batting for the other team?

_Kill! Obliterate! I fall on him, slashing, carving out great chunks of flesh and bone. Blood sprays. Cyber-Sabre screams and melts._

"Comin' for ya, runt!"

_A surge of elation. I sing my joy, my victory, my dominance, my new challenge. "RRRRAHHHGHHH."_

Stop this. Gotta stop this. The relentless attacks of the avatar are feeding the feral rage. Gotta end the simulation.

"Ahhhh end…._Nahhhrahhhhhhh!"_

"Comin' for ya, runt!"

The words won't come. I can't cancel the simulation. The seductive power of the animal is dragging me under. I've underestimated the intensity of my own rage and now it's gotten away from me and I'm paralysed, an unwilling observer. The new avatar has learned, analysed and absorbed that little burst of savagery. Now he's coming at me again, a distorted reflection of the animal I am.

_Claws flash. Blood sprays. He's gone! Elation._

Trying to stop is like trying to halt an express train by tripping it up. Part of me doesn't want to stop.

"Comin' for ya, runt!"

_"YESSSSSSS!"_

NO!

"End simulation!"

There's a deathly silence as the scene dissolves into plain grey walls. The place reeks of blood and the floor is spattered with it. All mine of course. Someone ended the simulation. It's wasn't me. Then who? 'Ro's face peers down from the observation booth. Her eyes are wide with shock. She's looking into the eyes of a rabid beast and I guess I'm eyeing her up like she's lunch.

_"GRRRRR!"_

My animal ain't happy. Me neither. The stakes have just skyrocketed. There's just a broken lock between my rage and a potential string of mangled corpses. Gotta end this now.

The door explodes inwards and my head rings as the shock wave bounces of the walls and through me. I stagger and fall to my knees. A blast of hot air and dissipating plasma washes over me. The atmosphere is acrid with the stink of scorched metal. Fuck! My head turns towards the new distraction. Summers steps past the buckled and still smoking door, hand to visor control.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing Logan?" Anger radiates off him like heat.

_A challenge! Smell anger Hates me. Hate him. Smell flesh and blood. Smell adrenaline rush. See threat posture. See muscles tensed. See real prey Attack imminent. Kill it._

_"RRRRRARRRRGHHH!"_

I'm drowning in a sea of brutish frenzy and Summers has no fucking idea what danger he's in. But someone does.

'Ro's voice grates out of a hidden speaker, strained, urgent, heavy with stress. "Scott! Logan's gone feral. He's not rational. I wouldn't advise…"

"Oh, yeah?" One-eye steps towards me, hand still clasped to his visor. He ain't gonna hesitate if that's what it takes. It won't be enough to save him.

Oh, Christ, don't do this. Back away now. For once in your life get with the submissive program and you might walk out of here alive.

_He's advancing another step. And another. Supple as a stalking wolf, I'll assume combat readiness and circle, slowly, cautiously, blocking off the one escape route. This ain't no dumb avatar. The anticipation of shredding flesh, steeping my claws in real blood and destroying an enemy in the process is so delicious, so sweet and overpowering I can taste it._

Damn!

Summers is an asshole but he ain't the enemy and he doesn't deserve to die like this, butchered like a fucking animal, by an animal.

No. No, yer not gonna do this. Using the equivalent of a mental cosh I bludgeon my way back to control. His will is grinding mine down like a pebble beneath a glacier. Doubling my effort I push back. Hard. Need to make Summers see sense. Need to get him away from me.

"KILLL. YOU. GET…GRRROWWWR…GET. OOOUUTTT!"

The warning emerges as a tortured howl as I try to fight my way past the feral instinct to attack this new threat, past the bloodlust, past the iron will that is holding me in thrall. Past the stubborn bastard that I am. It's a fight I daren't lose.

Grim faced, Summers responds. "I don't think so."

_Closing the distance. Can sense his arrogance. His complacency. His over-confidence. He's mine._

NO! I focus my concentration on one thing. One small thing. Sheathing the claws. In my mind I can see the muscles controlling those six cruelly sharp blades. I will those muscles to contract, to retract the claws back into my forearms.

_"NNNYARRRRR."_

God, the struggle to regain dominance is tearing me apart. Can't stop. Can let my animal win. Sheath, God dammit. Sheath those fucking pig stickers. My concentration is so absolute it blurs my vision. A whole lifetime seems to condense into punishing, interminable seconds.

Contract those muscles for Chrissake.

SHEATH!

Pain explodes behind my eyes as the animal rages against returning to the depths of my mind. My entire being is trembling with shock, heavy tears of agony course down my face and onto my blood-caked chest.. Burning pain in my hands and arms is my victory. The claws slide back into their fleshy scabbard.

Relief.

Sweet blessed relief.

Summers is on me. He's determined to make a fight of this. I do the only thing I can think of to save his life. I hit the bastard. I smash my fist into his skull, exerting enough self control to pull the punch. He drops like a broken doll, unconscious, no longer posing a threat. With morbid fascination I stare down at him, at his pale, slack features, at the blood matting the hair above his left ear, at the small pool of blood forming on the floor. I hate myself. I hate what I'm capable of becoming, the horrors I'm capable of committing, the damage I can inflict.

My lungs labour with the effort of reclaiming my senses as I crouch over the prone Summers, torn between checking his vitals or finishing him off.

Opening my mouth I throw back my head and scream wordlessly. It's the sound of a soul dying; of a man pitching headlong into a bottomless pit of despair. Jeanie was wrong to trust me; to make me hope. What she saw was a lie, self delusion. Stryker knew what I was, what I've always been, what I'll always be. Not a man. An animal.

"Logan! What have you done?"

'Ro steps past the door wreckage and her eyes fall on Summers still form. Her features twist into a mask of loathing and she raises her arms, eyes assuming that unearthly white cast that means I'm gonna feel the full force of her wrath.

For a brief second, the air pressure drops and then I'm hit by the fury of a tornado. The air slams into my body with the force of an avalanche, lifting my off my feet and smashing me mercilessly into the wall. As incandescent agony and blackness claim me, my last conscious thought is that I deserve this. I deserve never to wake up.


	4. Aftermath

Hmmm. With the lack of comments I don't know how well or how poorly chapter three was received or even if anyone has read it. Was the style in which is was written too confusing? Was the prose too heavy? Did it lack interest? Does anyone have a suggestion regarding how it might be improved? Please let me know because I write for your pleasure as well as my own. Without feedback I am all at sea with only my inexperienced fanfic writer's hands on the tiller.

It would be nice to receive any reviews, even if it's to say you don't like the story or how it might be improved. Constructive criticism is particularly welcome If nothing else, at least I'll know the story is being read. Please, people, the noob craves input. Lots 'n' lots of input!

**Chapter 4: Aftermath**

The nightmare is fluid, rushing through my head like a river in full spate. Sickeningly familiar mages: vague, fleeting yet strangely vivid, burst to the surface bubbling and boiling. I'm confined, floating in a small tank. Someone is there, above me, wrapped in writhing shadow. Pain. Terror. Helplessness. I can't move. I can only watch as the skin over my chest is pierced by a horrifically large injection instrument and white hot agony is delivered at the press of a lever. The hand wielding the injector is pale, slender. The shadows recede and the face peering down at me is surrounded by fire, it's white eyes hard and merciless, its lips stretched into a rictus of unholy pleasure.

Oh, Christ. No. It's Jean. Jean is doing this to me.

Not you, darlin'.

Ya don't wanna do this.

Don't….

I try to wrench myself free, to escape the torture but the restraints hold me fast. Liquid metal is being pumped along my ribs, as pitiless and as devastating as molten hatred. Cruel laughter fills my head as Jean works her way across my ribcage. The stench of my own roasting flesh permeates everything, even the mask protecting me from drowning in the tank. I know I'm screaming. I can't help it.

New pain receptors burst into life. Fire laces my arms and hands like they've been thrust into a furnace. This pain is more urgent, superseding the other, paring it and the nightmare away. I've popped the claws. My personal reality check has just kicked in.

Sensory information floods my nostrils and ears, claws its way into my still woozy head. The air is recycled, heavy with the smell of antiseptic, surgical disinfectant and fresh blood – mine and someone else's. I'm not alone. I can hear breathing, shallow, stressed, angry. The scent belongs to Summers. Peachy. Somewhere close by a machine hums, its electronic voice familiar. I open my eyes. I'm in the med-lab but this time there ain't no red haired angel hovering over me. I squeeze my eyes shut. The memory is too painful, especially after she just….

No, I don't want to go there. I don't want to be here. Just as soon as I haul my ass upstairs I'm packing my stuff and leaving. I ain't ever gonna come back. It's best for everyone if I just go.

I make to swing myself upright. Nothing happens. I can't move. Can't move my head, my torso or my limbs. Can't move anything. Bands of padded leather chafe my skin as I tense my body against them. I'm strapped to the examination table like a laboratory specimen. Icy panic contracts my gut into a hard ball of fear and I begin to thrash around, trying to slacken the bonds. Suddenly I'm plunged back into nightmare except this time I'm not asleep. I'm as helpless as a lab rat pinned out for dissection. With my arms fastened down I can't use the claws to cut myself free.

"What the fuck is this? Summers, what the fuck're ya playing at? Get me out of this."

A chair scrapes lazily on the polished floor. Summers is on his feet but he ain't in any hurry. His breathing is more laboured and I can taste the chemicals of loathing oozing from his pores. Guess he's way beyond pissed right now. Maybe I got that coming. Suddenly he's there standing at my side, arms crossed, head cocked, ruby quartz visor glinting in the fluorescent light. His brown hair is mussed and I can see a small shaved area above his left ear with its freshly stitched wound. His face is a mask, his lips thin lines. Seconds pass as he studies me like a spider studies a fly. I lie unmoving, staring directly into his visor. Guilt wells up inside me and I feel like a complete shit but I ain't gonna look away.

"Let me go."

"That's not going to happen, Logan."

His voice sounds almost conversational but the inflection of his words and the tension in their delivery informs me he would rather spit in my face. Maybe he should. At least I could understand that.

"I'm not going to hurt anyone."

Summers twists his head towards my mid section. "Really? So why are your claws out?" He returns his pokerfaced attention to me.

Damn! Too late I retract them. "Nightmare. Real bad one," I mutter. "'S okay now. I'm cool. Everything's cool."

"So now I can let you go?"

"Yeah."

"Let a crazed killer like you lose to prowl around the school?"

What? I can feel my anger gathering, forming a hard spike in my chest. "Some crazed killer," I rasp. "You're still breathing ain'tcha?" As soon as my angry words fall from my mouth I know I've the wrong thing. I curse inwardly. I'm not doing myself any favours here.

Summers' impassive expression transforms into one of utter revulsion. "I'm still breathing because Storm zapped you with her power." He squeezes out those words with such force he sprays me with tiny flecks of saliva.

"No! That's not how it went down…"

"Bullshit! Stryker laughed when he told me what kind of monster you really are, sharing what you did for him as he relished the irony of you being in a school for mutant kids. He described to me in detail how you sold out your own kind to the project, especially children, to save your own worthless fucking hide. He wiped your mind after you woke up and slaughtered his top scientists just for kicks.

"For Rogue's sake I didn't want to believe him but your little demonstration in the Danger Room put things into sharp perspective. Set you free in a school teeming with your favourite prey? Not a hope in hell of that happening. An animal like you should be in a fucking cage."

Crushed by the sudden impact of Summers' accusations I try to rationalise, to defend myself. "No, you're wrong. He hated mutants. The only ones he trusted were mindless slaves. No way would he do one a favour. He was lying."

Wasn't he?. My mind reels, settles on my confrontation with Stryker on a frozen helicopter pad in Canada. He'd hinted at my involvement with him, that the adamantium bonding had been at my own request, insinuating that his reticence to divulge information was somehow protecting me. I didn't believe him. Didn't think it was possible.

Oh, God.

Did I really do it?

Please let Summers be wrong.

Fear grinds a path through my wildly fluctuating emotions making my blood run cold, almost paralysing my lungs. I can't defend myself because I don't know truth from lie. I can't remember but that doesn't mean it never happened.

"He was lying," I repeat. My voice is so strained and desperate even I don't believe me.

"Scott!" It's Xavier. He sounds real pissed with his Head Boy. Under different circumstances I would be amused. "Release Logan at once and then wait for me in my study."

"But Professor…"

"Immediately, if you please."

"Yes sir."

His face once more expressionless, Summers sets to work on removing the restraints. I can see the muscles along his jaw spasm with suppressed fury and somehow it makes him look more human. Task finished, he turns on his heel and exits the med-lab without a word or a backward glance, his spine ramrod straight, his shoulders inflexible. The slam of the door speaks volumes.

I swing my legs over the edge of the table and sit up. I feel shaky, drained; crushed flat, as if the sky has fallen in on me. Dried clots of blood crack and flake from my skin. I stink of fear, old blood and stale sweat.

Xavier wheels himself closer, fixing me with his calm, steel-blue gaze. He's wearing grey sweats rather than one of his immaculate suits. "I apologise for the restraints, Logan. Given the severity of your bout of feral anger it was necessary to ensure that, once awake, you were in control of your senses."

Charlie's apologising to _me_? "I'm leaving, Charlie. Best for everyone if I just go."

Xavier purses his lips. "Best for whom, Logan? For you? For the school? For the team? Is running away the only solution you have?"

He ain't talking me out of this. "Cut the head-shrinking crap will ya? I almost killed Summers. My head is so fucked up right now I ain't safe to have around."

"What happened this morning was a misunderstanding, Logan. Scott shares equal blame."

Equal blame?

"'Scuse me?"

Leaning forward in his chair Xavier's demeanour alters subtly. Exasperation streams from him. And concern.

"I felt your pain very acutely last night, Logan, before you closed me out. I know your grief over Jean's death and your misplaced sense of guilt has affected you profoundly. Scott, too, is suffering greatly and it is clouding his judgement somewhat. Both of you are too strong and too proud to admit that you need help dealing with this crisis. For all of your differences in character, the two of you are more alike than you realise."

"I didn't ask for the scenic tour, Charlie," I say wearily. "Where's this leading?"

"Why didn't you seek permission to use the Danger Room?"

The question takes me by surprise. I shrug. "I didn't think I would get it."

Leaning back in his chair, Xavier regards me with cool detachment, his expression cynical. "I do not believe that. And neither do you."

My turn to be exasperated. "Why the third degree if ya already know the answer?"

"It was a simple question, Logan. Why are you being so hostile and defensive?"

Xavier's not letting this go. If he wants to hear the truth from my own lips then why the hell not? I swallow before 'fessing up. "Because I didn't want anyone to see what I really am. You happy now?" I scrub my face with my hands unable to believe I'd voiced my chagrin so casually.

"And what is it, precisely, that you think you really are?"

Why is he doing this? Is he deliberately trying to provoke me into anger? Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag now. "What Stryker said. What Summers said. I'm a fucking animal. Jeezus, what d'ya want from me?"

Resting his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair, Xavier steeples his fingers and looks over them at me, his gaze steady.

"You are not an animal, Logan, although it is an integral part of your psyche. I overheard what Scott said. Almost word for word it was the same litany Stryker delivered to my ears when he held me captive. In fact he took great delight in taunting me with your presence at the school."

"You think he was lying?" I ask hopefully.

"No."

I don't know what reply I was expecting but it sure as hell ain't that one. Xavier's stark admission rocks me to the core of my being. But for the fact I'm sitting I might well have stumbled to my knees in shock.

"You think I did all them things? Betrayed them kids, all them people to their deaths?"

"I believe William Stryker was telling an abridged version of the truth."

I want to puke but my throat has constricted to the point I can barely draw breath. The walls feel like they're closing in on me, judging me. I'm obviously missing the point Xavier's trying to make here. He thinks I helped Stryker off mutants to save myself but he doesn't think I'm an animal?

"It can't be true," I moan softly. Suddenly I want to end it. I don't care about my lost memories any more. I don't care about the fifteen years of hell I've endured since.

Fingers seize my arm in a tight grip. "Logan, stop this. It wasn't your fault."

I laugh. It's high pitched, tinged with insanity.

"Listen to me, Logan," Xavier demands urgently, "Answer me this. If a man holds a gun to someone's head and pulls the trigger, who is to blame for that someone's death? The gun? Or the man?"

I stare at him like he's grown another head. "What?"

"The gun or the man?"

"The man of course."

"And that man was William Stryker. I believe you were his gun, Logan. Stripped of all memory and conscious will you had no choice but to do his bidding. Like Scott, like the unfortunate Yuriko Oyama, he reduced you to an unfeeling, mindless slave.

"How d'ya reckon I wasn't a willing participant?"

"You said it yourself. Stryker hated mutants. All mutants. And I've decrypted enough of Stryker's files to discover you were definitely not on his staff. It is a reasonable assumption that if you were not serving the project, then you were an unwilling victim of it."

"But you were concerned enough to go looking, right?" Xavier winces but doesn't break eye contact. I've definitely hit a raw nerve. "What else did you find Charlie?"

"Logan, you have a strength of character and an innate sense of honour rarely encountered in this world. That you can function on any civilised level after what happened to you is testament to your intelligence and your resilience. You are not a self-serving monster, Logan. Everything I've learned about you, both in thought and deed, contraindicates Stryker's claims."

"Yeah, I'm a regular fucking hero. That's why I beat up people for money. Answer the damn question Charlie."

"Very well. There is very little information predating three years ago other than civilian staff records and military personnel files. These particular records go back as far as 1977. You do not feature in them."

"Could've been freelance."

"Why are you so eager to paint yourself in the darkest shades of black?"

"Maybe 'coz I know me better'n you do." I've done some pretty questionable things in my time, Charlie, but I ain't gonna go into that anytime soon.

"I believe you are doing yourself a grave injustice Logan."

I hope to God that's true. "Whatever. What else did ya find?"

"Miss Oyama, it seems, was a fairly recent addition to Stryker's team. There is mention of a previously cancelled experiment, code named Weapon X. The unfortunate child was subject to a modified version of this project and her free will chemically isolated by a drug manufactured from a secretion produced by Jason Stryker's neocortex. Not quite as barbaric as a complete mind wipe but still criminally reprehensible. An increasingly ineffective control of the original test subject seems to be the single issue that ground the project to a very sudden halt some years ago."

I thought my heart was going to seize up. "Stryker called me a failed experiment. The Oyama kid had a healing factor. Like me she survived the adamantium bonding process – that's gotta be the Weapon X project. But the control mechanisms were different. And she didn't smell feral. Was that the difference, Charlie? The reason why I escaped and she didn't?"

"I believe you may be right."

The tightly wound coil of fear inside me lost it's tension and I exhaled my relief. What Xavier said made sense. He'd hardly keep me around if he thought I'd endanger his kids. Running my fingers through my thick hair I managed a grin. "Guess I'll be hanging out here a while longer, Charlie."

"I'm pleased to hear it. However, your welcome at the school is conditional."

"Oh?" I stare at him, eyes narrowed.

"I want your word that the next time you feel the need to…ah…dismantle something in the Danger Room, you arrange to have an observer present at the controls. Ororo has offered to do this at any hour of the day or night."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "'Ro said that?"

Xavier lips bend into a smile. "She feels it's the least she can do after misinterpreting your cry of pain as a prelude to delivering a _coup de grâce_ on Scott. She is terribly upset that her own impetuous actions injured you."

I shake my head. "She made a split second decision based on the evidence of her eyes. Probably the same decision I would have made. I ain't gonna blame her for that."

"Nevertheless. Your word if you please."

"You have it, okay." It's a small price to pay.

"Very good. I shall ask Scott to reinstate your full voice command code."

Why you sly old bastard. "That was you?"

"I have been monitoring you for quite some time. You have an impetuous nature, Logan. The Danger Room is a logical outlet for your aggression but I was concerned for your safety so I limited your combat status to level six. I have to say your ingenuity in circumventing part of the programming proved to be something of a revelation."

Xavier drops his hands to the wheels of his chair and backs off a ways.

"What about Summers? He thinks I'm capable of delivering mutant kids up for vivisection. He has the headache to prove it."

Serious now, all traces of his smile gone, Xavier intones, "I'll speak to Scott presently. He has been badly shaken by the recent events and his focus is not as precise as it should be. It seems he's forgotten the things Stryker forced him do under the duress of the mid controlling agent and how impossible it proved to fight against its influence."

All attention now I remember something that slipped my mind. "Jeannie was limping. If he hurt her…" I growled threateningly.

"Logan. Scott would kill himself before he ever hurt Jean. He is as blameless as you. What he did whilst under Stryker's control has sickened him to his very core and he has been tearing himself apart ever since with a guilt that as misplaced as yours."

This time I couldn't look Xavier in the eye. How would I have felt if I'd hurt Jeannie and then been forced to stand helplessly by and watch her die?

"Why don't you shower and then have something to eat. I have a special guest I would like you to meet. Say, my study at eleven thirty?"

His smile is back, all traces of his previous anger, are now gone. I'd forgotten about the midnight arrival. "Sure."

He wheels himself out of the med-lab leaving me to wonder who the mystery woman is. Guess I'm gonna find out soon enough.


	5. Who the hell needs friends anyway?

**Disclaimer: **Last seen skulking in the region of Chapter 1. Its evil twin might've made it as far as Chapter 2 though.

My thanks to everyone who has bothered to read the story so far and for joegood2003 who took the time to let me know the last chapter it was worth stealing fifteen minutes of his (or her?) life to read.

**Chapter 5: Who the hell needs friends anyway?**

Hot water sluices the dried blood from my skin and I watch the muddy red ribbons spiral from sight in idle fascination. Grabbing the bottle of shower lotion I wash away all physical traces of my near disaster in the Danger Room. Wish I could do the same with the shit I did to Summers but that's one of those stubborn stains that no miracle non-bio is ever gonna shift. What's done is done. Can't take it back and I ain't apologising for his stupidity so I guess he'll have to live with it. I know I can. The feral rage, an unremitting presence, has been drawn like a poison and is currently in remission. The cleansing heat of the water feels good, easing away the tension and smoothing out the knots in my muscles. I'm relaxed for the first time since…since I can't remember. What if this weird thing I'm feeling ain't real? What if it's the result of Xavier's mojo?

The events of this morning seem distant somehow, like a slowly fading dream. Maybe I'm just tired. My sleep pattern, broken at best, is now hopelessly erratic and I haven't slept more'n a couple of hours at a stretch for weeks thanks to the nightmares. The impromptu slumber party 'Ro threw this morning don't hardly count. Since Jeannie's death a combination of rage and healing factor is all that's kept me upright but now one of those factors is spent I'm feeling spaced out, intoxicated, soaring high and savouring freedom like a caged bird newly set free. It's weirding me out.

Like a parasitic worm, Stryker's allegation had burrowed deep, gnawing away at me from the inside, spreading its insidious malevolence, contaminating the tiny shred of decency I'd managed to cultivate and replacing it with despair. Xavier's little _tête-à-tête_ served to extract the worm and treat the festering wound before dressing it with a valid perspective on Stryker's appalling claims. There was I, the big bad Wolverine, the invulnerable loner with the don't-fuck-with-me-or-I'll-gut-you rep, setting up stall on my fears like some fucking pansy-ass, feely-touchy loser doing therapy. What right did Xavier have seizing my emotional baggage and rummaging through it? Huh? Huh? Did I ask him?

Yeah, I did.

Face it moron.

I'd practically begged him to ream me after OD-ing on feral rage and damn near icing the Fearless Leader. And it wasn't so bad, was it? All he did was turn some of the shit encrusted stones crowding that pit I call a mind. And it had worked dammit! The poisonous critters lurking beneath had scuttled away, unable to face the light of truth and reason. All these years I've been my own jailer, my brooding disposition serving as the unbreakable lock on the cell door. Today I woke up and found the door ajar. Do I step across the threshold and embrace the unknown? Or do I huddle in a corner, clinging to the familiar darkness like a frightened child?

I ain't never quit a fight yet, not one that I know about anyway. Ain't gonna quit now.

I couldn't save ya Jean, I understand that now. No one could, not even Charlie. Ya gonna cut me a break, Red? Ya gonna quit haunting my dreams, darlin'? I'm asking ya real nice now.

What happened this morning ain't something I'm proud of but it served as a catalyst for Xavier finally giving up some of the goods. I aim to see that he continues. Hopefully his next data dump won't involve me shaking lose a team-mate's grey stuff. Maybe Xavier will provide me with some leverage, something with which I can twist his arm. And maybe slugs will swear off eating greens. Enough with the shower and the deep thoughts. Stepping out of the cubicle I reach for the towel.

Scrubbing myself roughly dry I ferret through the sparsely cluttered armoire for fresh boxers and socks, chiding myself for allowing my dirty laundry to reach crisis point - again. Laundry and shit never bothered me much when on the road, making do whenever I could but living in the mansion means I have to embrace some of the more inflexible regime of social decorum. This mean throwing myself and my clothes into a convenient stream or lake ain't acceptable. When I first arrived Jean gave me a selection of shampoos and soaps made from natural ingredients because I couldn't stand the chemical reek of the massed produced crap. I gotta admit, they make me feel good, like I've bathed in the outdoors. Maybe I should ask 'Ro about getting some replacement stuff for me on her next shopping trip.

I pull on my last clean pair of jeans They're faded, hard worn and comfortable. I complete the ensemble with a plain black T shirt and then study myself in the armoire's full length mirror. My own hazel eyes stare back, fearless – yeah right - and uncompromising. Great to see they've finally lost that hunted look. Hair's a mess but that's nothing new. I run the fingers of one hand through my damp hair and smooth my mutton chop whiskers with the other hand. Hell, who says I can't multi-task with the best of 'em? The unruly black mane falls into its two distinctive wolf's ear tufts that defy any and all attempts to slick them down. Even my fucking hair is feral. I grin, revealing white teeth with abnormally large canines. Yet another physical legacy of my feral mutation.

All the better ta eat'cha with.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Priorities. Gathering up my soiled clothes into the hamper I set about protecting the sensibilities of the mansion's inhabitants by heading down the back stairs to the basement. I startle a couple of hormonally charged teens lip wrestling in a dark corner of the laundry room. One look at me and they scram. Shame I don't have that effect on everyone. The machine at the far end is empty so I stuff my cloths in, chuck some detergent in after them, select a program and head for the kitchen on the first floor.

The kitchen is empty save for Maggie, the school's cook, who is wiping down work surfaces. Her greying hair is tied into a neat bun and the synthetic fibre of her pink overall rustles softly as she moves.

"Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon," she sings liltingly in her richly accented English voice before she begins humming the tune. The strong aroma of grilled ham and fried eggs hangs in the air, making my mouth water. I can also smell fresh coffee.

"Hungry man here Maggie. Wanna take pity on him?"

Turning her plump, motherly face towards me she purses her lips, looking me up and down as if searching for something. Appraisal apparently satisfactory, Maggie's light brown eyes finally meet mine and her plump, motherly face crinkles into a smile.

"You really need to ask? Sit yourself down, pet, and I dare say I can scrounge up a little something to keep your navel from chafing against your backbone for a while."

"Thanks, Maggie. You're a star."

"Aren't I though?" She laughs, a cheery sound that brings a smile to my own face. Maggie's an empath able to communicate her mood as well as sensing that of others and it's difficult to feel down when in her company if she doesn't want you to.

Drawing up a stool at the breakfast counter I perch myself on it and Maggie plonks down a plate, knife and fork in front of me. This looks promising. The aroma of ham intensifies when she opens the oven door and takes out a tray. The satisfying sizzle of hot food fills the kitchen and I practically drool in anticipation of Maggie's little something. Ham, sausages, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, hash browns; the works. She piles them on the plate.

"Sorry there's no bread left, had a lot of packed lunches to oversee. Otherwise, enjoy," she grins, the devil playing in her eyes. After depositing the empty tray in the sink she takes a large mug out of a cupboard and fills it up with steaming hot black coffee.

"Shnnks," I manage to get out as I chew on a mouthful of ham.

"The Professor said you'd need something substantial inside you and I know your special power of healing makes you ravenous so I saved you a double helping."

I swallowed the half chewed meat. "Xavier told you about what happened?" Aware that Maggie had been a psychologist before she became the school cook, I wondered if Xavier had discussed our confidential talk with her.

"Heavens no. I overhead Miss Munroe talking to Mr. Wagner about how she had accidentally injured you in that awful Danger Room. She was terribly upset, poor dear. When the Professor popped by to let me know about a late breakfast arrival it wasn't difficult to put two and two together."

"Right." Mentally smoothing my ruffled feathers, I stuff another wedge of ham into my mouth and chew with renewed relish. Maggie has excelled herself and I eat in contented silence. With no bread available I use the hash browns to mop the plate.

"Ya saved my life Maggie. Thanks."

"It's nice seeing a man with a hearty appetite appreciating my cooking. My Ben, bless him, loved his food."

Uh, oh. She's speaking past tense here and I detect a whiff of sorrow clinging to her. Don't know Maggie well so I wonder why she's decided to open up to me all of a sudden. "He your husband? What happened to him?" I enquire.

"Road accident. A truck driver suffered a heart attack at the wheel, poor man. Ben had picked our daughter and son-in-law up from the station and was driving home. The truck ploughed into Ben's car and he, Cheryl and Michael were killed instantly. Now there's only Chloe and I."

Christ on a crutch! "Chloe?"

"My granddaughter. Chloe stayed with Ben and me while her parents enjoyed a second honeymoon. Thankfully she was feeling unwell and didn't go with Ben to meet her Mum and Dad. She's an intern at Cedars Sinai in Los Angeles now and before studying medicine she was a student here. She's an empath like her Gran, see. The Professor offered me a teaching post so I could be close to Chloe but my real love is cooking so I became the school's cook instead. It's been my home for nearly twelve years now."

"I'm sorry Maggie, I didn't know."

"No need to be. It was a long time ago." She places a hand on my shoulder. "I know how deeply it can hurt to lose someone precious, Logan. I loved Jean like a daughter and later, as a friend. I sense that you shared a bond with her too and I've heard talk, not all of it kind. People see your growly exterior…"

"Growly?"

"Growly! They see your growly exterior and mistake it for stupidity, for shallowness and selfish impetuosity. I know it for a sham designed to keep people at arm's length. You are a creature of intelligence and complexity. You loved Jean with every ounce of your fierce being and in a special way many people can never understand. I understand and so does Charles."

"You must be confusing me with Summers." I look at her, not knowing what else to say. Maggie smiles, shakes her head and pats my shoulder once, twice.

"More coffee, pet?"

"Yeah, I think I need it."

Taking the empty mug from my hands she refills it and hands it back. "It isn't wrong to love someone Logan. You can't insulate yourself against being hurt either because it is one of the forces that shapes us, makes us into what we are."

"Yeah, and I got the butcher's knives to prove it."

"That's not what I mean. You have a great capacity to love and there is a tiny seed waiting to blossom inside you if you will only let it."

"Give it up, Maggie. Yer trying ta paint Attila the Hun as Romeo describing me like that. I'm an animal, a killer. I got this knack for destroying every damned thing I touch. It's what I do best. I got no right to dump that load on any decent woman and ask her ta love me."

She cocked her head on one side, raising an eyebrow. "But isn't that precisely what you expected of Jean?"

"Jean is the only one who ever accepted me for what I am."

Shaking her head emphatically Maggie snapped out, "Nonsense. Absolute piffle! There are at least three other people I could name who accept you for who and what you are unconditionally."

"Really? That many?" Maggie's wrong. Since arriving at the school I've been treated with suspicion, less welcome than a horny dog at a Miss Luscious Legs pageant. I make people nervous, especially after what I did to Stryker's goons. My tone drips icy sarcasm and Maggie purses her lips, frustrated by my response.

"Logan, this fear you have of being less than human streams off you in waves. You live in two worlds yet you master neither of them because you do not know who you are."

"And why is that? I forget."

"Stop being facetious and trying to cloud the issue. You need to hear this. You are incomplete and I'm not talking about your memories here. There's a part of you missing. I sense a greater intellect and much more locked away inside your head. A close analogy would be that you are a computer operating at a basic level but with your higher functions lying dormant, password protected. While your memories have been deleted your skills and intellect remain intact but inaccessible.

"Rather than being obsessed with who you are, you should be exploring what you are because that knowledge is within your grasp if only you would reach out and take it. "

Alarm bells start ringing loudly. How the hell could she know that I've been thinking along those very lines for myself? I can fucking guess. She's a psychologist and an empath. Xavier's a psychologist, amongst other things, and a telepath. They've probably been studying me since I arrived at this dump. I hate that people can apparently peek inside my head and leaf through things I don't even know are there.

"What's this, psychoanalyse the Wolverine day? You and Charlie got a club goin' now? Or are ya making book on which way ya can make me jump?"

"There you go, the rough, gruff, feral warrior with the sod you attitude crashing down his defensive shutters. You can't remain hermetically sealed against the world forever, Logan."

"Watch me!"

Maggie's reply is interrupted by Rogue bursting into the kitchen. She busies herself clearing away the plate.

"Hey, Logan."

Rogue is, for want of a better description, full of bounce, bubbling with excitement. Figure hugging jeans and a long sleeved T shirt accentuate her curves. I try not to notice but it's hard. With little effort she jumps up and seats her graceful form on the counter beside me, arms casually extended backward bracing her upright, booted feet swinging. The soft, peaches and cream skin of her face is flushed pink. Whatever she's excited about makes her positively glow, animating her expression, her entire posture. Maybe she and Mr. Frosty have finally devised some way of locking lips without her sucking the life out of him. With all the shit in her young life she deserves a break.

Thrusting aside the disquiet Maggie's words has stirred up I keep my voice neutral for Rogue's sake. "What's new, kid?"

"You should know."

Playing it safe I murmur a quizzical, "I do?" The rumour mill in this place must be in overdrive.

"So who was it then?"

She's got me with that one. "Who was what?"

She tosses her head in mock exasperation, blinking her brown eyes at me. "The kid Scott's looking for of course. The one you dragged screaming from bed and co-opted."

Hey, puzzled man sitting here. "What kid?"

Rogue flashes me what I can only describe as a conspiring smile "Kitty swears it wasn't her. Ah reckon she'd have done the job properly so ah guess it wasn't her. Besides, if you'd've snuck into our room last night you would've let me in on the joke, right?"

I've just lost the thread of this conversation. In fact, I'm pretty sure I never had it in the first place. "What joke? What the fuck are ya talking about, kid?"

"Logan!" Maggie chided. "Your language is a little too colourful for present company if you don't mind."

"Sorry."

"There's a pool running. I got the geeky kid, Danny Connors, the one with the creepy horn rims. He definitely looks more dazed than usual today. Was it him?"

"Hello? Did I suddenly start speaking in tongues or somethin'? Let's back-peddle a little ways, darlin'. What. Are. You. Talkin'. About?"

"The kid you got to fix the Danger Room computer of course."

Her words were a knife in my heart. Did Rogue, of all people, believe I would scare some kid half to death just to gizmo a computer? Did it even occur to her that I might not need anyone's help? This I expect from Summers, but Rogue? I was suddenly aware that Maggie had froze. The crisp rustle of her overall tells me she's twisted around and I can feel her stare burning into the back of my neck.

"Sorry to disappoint ya kid but you ain't getting word one outta me."

Digging me gently in the ribs with her elbow Rogue drawls, "Aw, c'mon Logan. Ya can give me a little hint. Just a small one."

"What makes ya think it was a kid?" The words emerge acid primed but I don't think she's notices the bitterness in my voice.

Sitting bolt upright, her eyes widening with interest, she asks, "Are you saying it was a teacher?"

Fuck this. "I got things to do. See ya later, Rogue." I almost knock over the stool in my haste to leave.

"Logan?" Boot soles slap on the floor as Rogue slides herself off the counter.

"I said later, kid," more roughly than I intended.

"Rogue, dear. Can I have a minute of your time please?" I hear Maggie say as I retreat.

"Can't it wait Maggie?" Rogue replies. "I think Ah might have upset Logan somehow."

"No, sweetheart, it can't."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

What the hell's wrong with me? Rogue is one of the few people who bats on my team and I treat her like she's just crapped in my boots. Realisation, a belated arrival, hammers into my thick, adamantium plated skull, weighed down by what Maggie said. At least three people trust me unconditionally and Rogue is one of them. Charlie's another and I lay good odds on Maggie being the third one. Hell, it's almost an entire cheerleader team.

Rogue's not just a kid, she's a friend, an ally wanting to be on the inside of some outrageous scam she thinks I've pulled. For her, and probably for her friends, it's a distraction from the morbid pall that has settled over the school since Jean's death. Being completely immersed in my own grief has blinded me to the suffering of others. Selfish shit that I am, I'll make it up to her.

Right now I need fresh air. I need solitude. Most of all I need a smoke. With barely forty minutes to kill I can't range far. The gardens and rec rooms are crawling with noisy kids so I head upstairs to the quieter seclusion of the roof.

The balustraded terrace on the roof of the south wing is rarely visited by anyone save for 'Ro who lovingly tends the many tubs of flowers and shrubs she brightens the place up with. The terrace is unoccupied so I step through the French door and close it firmly behind me. It's a beautiful day with fluffy white clouds scudding across a deep blue sky. Daffodils, tulips and hyacinth as well as other spring flowers are in full bloom, their bright colours vivid against the grey stone walls and dark slate of the roof. Subtle and not so subtle scents wash over me, including the pungent organic aromas emanating from the nearby stables.

Digging a stogie from my pocket I light it and take a deep drag, sucking the calming smoke down into my lungs. Cigar clamped firmly between my lips, its blue smoke curling lazily upwards, I exhale slowly. The muscles between my shoulders are bunched hard with tension and I try to relax them. Stretching my arms out I brace myself against the lichen mottled balustrade, letting it take my weight as I lean against it. There's no getting away from the noise but at least here its muted somewhat probably because horses do not elicit the same level of vocal excitement as the basketball court, the swimming pool or the soccer field.

Looking out across the gardens and Xavier's extensive estate I begin to brood on the "truths" Charlie and Maggie laid on me. Do I really possess the hidden depths Maggie spoke of? Am I innocent of the crimes Stryker said I helped him commit against my own kind? Am I really more than the shallow, selfish prick Summers believes me to be?

Do I fucking care?

My reverie is interrupted by the scrape of wood against wood as the French door opens outwards and 'Ro steps onto the roof terrace. It's one of her favourite eyries so I'm not surprised to see her there. She don't look too surprised to see me neither.

"Hey, Logan."

I look at her and nod. "'Ro."

"Mind if I join you?"

I draw deeply on the cigar, my gaze fixed on the horizon. Company ain't what I need right now so my shrug is non-committal. Unfortunately, she takes it as a yes.

She's wearing faded blue jeans coupled with a skinny fit, dark blue sweater which looks good against her _café-au-lait_ skin. Today her lustrous, white hair is tied back in a ponytail, short wisps curling around her flawless face. The air is suffused with the fresh scent of a hay meadow in summer. I breath her sweet scent in. She smells so good.

"Are you all right?" Her soft voice is like sunlight on the water, bright and sparkling. Wonder why I've never noticed that before?

"Compared to what?" I reply leadenly.

There's an awkward silence. Finally she lets out a sigh. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For this morning. Seeing Scott like that…seeing you…I completely misread your intention and then reacted by using excessive force against you. It was inexcusable of me." Its her turn to peer into the distance. The skin around her chocolate brown eyes is taught, creases of consternation seam her beautiful features. Her proximity and her candour is making me nervous. I want her to leave. Of course, this ain't gonna happen without persuasion.

"Keep your apology," I reply before taking in another lungful of smoke.

"You're angry. I guess you have a right to be."

"Nah, I'm not angry, 'Ro. You made the same call I would've. Ain't gonna hold a grudge for that."

"Then what's wrong, Logan?"

"Nothing."

"Is there a new definition of the word nothing I'm not aware of or do you have your own personal interpretation?"

Finally, I look at her straight in the eyes. A thoughtful smile plays across her lips and it breaks my heart because it reminds me of Jean. "Nothing as in, it ain't up for discussion. That fucking definite enough for ya?"

The smile on her perfect lips freezes and is replaced by a faint frown. " I guess so. Would you like me to leave?"

"If you insist."

" I just thought…I thought that you might need a friend."

A friend? Someone else who thinks they've got the right to tell me things I don't know about myself? Must be something in the fucking water. "I can't handle friendly so good right now, 'Ro. I ain't used to it." I look away.

"I understand."

Another understanding soul! Snorting derisively I growl out, "Do you?"

"Absolutely," she replies sweetly. "You don't have the monopoly on being alone in a hostile world you know. You should try it as a five year old."

I bite down hard on the cigar and glare at her. "For all I know I've been fending for myself since day one."

This gets her bristling. Placing her hands on her hips she leans in closer. "I can see it's pointless talking to a brooding Wolverine with a three XL burr wedged firmly up his ass. Book yourself in with a proctologist, Logan, it will improve your social skills immensely."

I've known 'Ro for several weeks but I don't really count her as a bosom buddy. This is the longest conversation we've ever had. It's also the first time I've ever heard her use anything close to a cussing word. Amazingly, she's indignant but not angry with my crap attitude. Removing the cigar from my lips I laugh. "Ya think?"

"Yeah."

"Hell, 'Ro, ya don't pull yer punches do ya?"

"Unlike some."

The atmosphere grows serious again and I suck on the cigar some more. "One-eye got lucky."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

"Maybe you'll talk about this then. How did you get my access code?"

"How d'ya think?"

"You watched me.?"

I grunt my response.

"I suspected as much. Scott believes you had help."

"I know. There's a pool going." I laugh dryly. "Some mini geek in horn rims seems to be odds on favourite."

'Ro folds her arms across her chest and nods her head. "Danny Connors."

"Yeah, him."

"Logan, if there's anything I can help you with, anything at all…" Normally, people say this on the spur of the moment, not expecting to be taken up on the offer. Sometimes, people say it because they mean it. I can tell by the look in 'Ro's eyes she is being sincere. That's comforting.

"You already have." I confess.

She looks surprised. "I have?"

"Yeah, volunteering to do oversee me blowing off steam occasionally. Much appreciated. Sorry if I scared ya this morning."

Something within 'Ro changes, a subtlety I can't quite define. Perhaps it's my apology that has triggered this change. Somehow her demeanour is more friendly less reserved.

"I don't mind, Logan. We all need release from our pent up feelings from time to time."

I decide to take immediate advantage of her offer. "Er…can I ask you another favour?"

She smiles warmly. "Of course."

I'm risking my mad, bad rep here but I gotta ask. "Um…Jean got me some stuff. Shampoo and things that don't smell like a chemistry lab. I'm almost out and I don't know where she got them from."

"No problem Logan. I'm going into town later to take a few of the girls shopping so I'll get you some.?" She seems to read something in my face. "It'll be our little secret, okay?"

"Thanks. 'Preciate that."

"Which one did you like the best?"

"Huh?"

"I sent you a selection, citrus, mint and spice."

"You sent them?"

Laughing, she explains, "Jean told me of your heightened senses. I thought organic essential oils would be easy on your keen sense of smell."

"They are. Thanks."

"So which one would you like me to buy?"

"Surprise me."

"All right."

I look at my watch. "I gotta go."

"I know. Charles is waiting for you." For Chrissake, is there nothing private in this place?

Stubbing my cigar out on the stone balustrade I say, "I'm sorry for coming on like a prize asshole, 'Ro. I get nervous when people start being nice. It usually means some bastard is out to try and shaft me."

"I assure you that I am shaft free," she grins. Her humour is genuine and there's a mischievous glint in her eye. Damn, its sexy.

"I had noticed." I return her grin along with my best smouldering look.

"You're a wicked man, Logan."

"Damn right!"

**If you are enjoying this please, please let me know. Feed da noob with ya thoughts. I'm starving from lack of feedback here and slowly loosing my enthusiasm.**


	6. Something in the water

**Disclaimer. **It ain't changed and neither have my financial circumstances.

This chapter isn't the one I intended to write or post at this early stage in the story and is shorter than I would like but it kept bouncing around inside my head and wouldn't let up until I set it free and committed it to electronic print. It remains to be seen how this outpouring of angst will effect the narrative later on but it helps me to establish the nature of the uneasy relationship that exists between Logan and Scott. The identity of the Prof's visitors and their importance to the ongoing story will be revealed in the next chapter, I promise.

As ever, my thanks to joegood2003 for the continuing encouragement. Please keep it up 'coz I crave your motivational panacea.

Dr. Nat, your amazing sacrifice of anonymity to review my story left me (almost) speechless. Your action, above and beyond the call of reviewing, is greatly appreciated, highly treasured and also totally humbling. It's also resulted in allowing unsigned, anonymous reviews, a lack of which I was not aware existed until you pointed it out. Magna smiles and thumbs up for that.

My thanks also to Sonder, whose similar sacrifice of anonymity was averted (grin) thanks to the timely intervention of Dr. Nat. In answer to your question – noob is a (usually derogatory if you're an online gamer) contraction of newbie. In the light of my blissful ignorance regarding the unsigned reviews, I guess the title has been well and truly earned. (embarrassed smile).

Hope you like this latest instalment.

**Chapter 6: Something in the water.**

Introspection is definitely _de rigueur_ today. Every fucking way I turn it's got its beady little eye fixed on me. A guy could develop a complex or at least a nervous tic. I swear to God, I'll eviscerate the next nosy bastard who tries to peer beneath my mean and moody exterior in search of my inner Logan.

My guts churn queasily as I pad down the main staircase towards the cavernous entrance hall but it ain't my meeting with Xavier that's got the barf wagon rolling. The stench permeating the air inside this part of the mansion is vile and bores vigorously into my sensitive nasal membranes. I try breathing through my mouth but it still makes my gorge rise.

The main wing took the brunt of Stryker's assault and required major renovation. Gone is the seasoned fragrance of antique oak and beeswax polish to be replaced by the throat-burning miasma of paint, solvents, chemical waxes and the acrid, choking reek of artificial dyes from the new carpets. To everyone else in the mansion the restoration work smells of newness, nothing more. For someone with enhanced senses it's nothing short of physical torture. I try to avoid the area whenever I can, and will continue to do so until some of the toxic 'newness' has worn off.

President McKenna ordered the repair and restoration of the mansion done at the expense of the US taxpayers. Least he could do after he naively gave Stryker a mandate to fuck us over. The structural damage from the explosive devices required extensive and very expensive remedial work and, give McKenna his due, he sent in the best specialists available. The bodies and the bloodstains were removed within hours of the attack and the school relocated to temporary accommodation the same day the team returned from Washington. Maggie and Charlie have been working overtime in their own speciality trying their damnedest to comfort and remove the fears of the kids who still wake up screaming in terror. Ain't never gonna be a quick fix for that. Ain't ever gonna win McKenna my vote or my forgiveness.

When the construction crews and restoration experts quit the premises Summers and I performed an electronic sweep of the entire site, including the gardens, and removed a number of extraneous fixtures that hadn't featured on the blueprints. Government agencies have this nasty habit of discarding surveillance technology in the most curious places. The motherfuckers really oughta learn to be more discrete or at least less predictable.

As my boots touch the polished parquet of the entrance hall my attention is distracted by a door opening nearby. A whiff of antiseptic carries towards me on the current of air created by the open door. Summers, dressed in carefully pressed dark brown slacks and cream sweater, steps out of his classroom and into the hall. The livid purple of an emerging bruise now discolours the shaved patch above his left ear and the raw, puckered edges of the stitched wound gleam wetly as they slowly ooze a thin film of fluid. I know from bitter experience that his head is throbbing with the intensity a jackhammer. He had it coming but I'm glad the blow fell short of concussion.

Surprisingly, he's still wearing his visor rather than his ruby tinted spectacles. Perhaps he's expecting trouble. The visor seriously messes with his peripheral vision so he doesn't see me at first. I got nothing to say to him and there's somewhere I need to be so I ignore him. Shame he don't feel the same way.

"Logan, a word or two if you don't mind."

Fuck is a good word. Off seems to snuggle up to it cosily. They look well together, like jelly and donut; like Harley and Davidson; like ass and hole.

"I'm busy," I say and make to turn away.

Summers checks his watch and I get the distinct feeling that, like 'Ro, he has an intimate knowledge of my appointments schedule.

"You have a few minutes. I'll make this quick." His bearing is aloof, his tone guarded and polite, his expression feigning mild boredom but it's an act he's put on for my benefit. The stink he's giving off tells me he's burning up inside from his contempt for me. Hope it gives him acid indigestion.

"Clock's ticking," I say coldly.

Summers and I obviously need to thrash a few things out but holding what promises to be a verbal blitzkrieg mere feet from Xavier's study ain't exactly a suitable venue. Making a show of thrusting my hands into my pockets I fix him with my patented and usually effective you're-pissing-me-off glare.

"I want to know who you _persuaded_ to help you overcome the Danger Room safety protocols."

What the fuck? Ain't he worked it out yet? The emphasis on the word persuasion is nothing short of an accusation for intimidation and confirms Rogue's disclosure that Summers is convinced I threatened a kid. Beating down an on overwhelming desire to break his face I display a nonchalance worthy of an Oscar. Reason is difficult for me to accomplish when my blood is boiling but I try. The kid's hurting, in shock. Traumatised people do and say stupid, uncharacteristic things which means he ain't firing on all cylinders. Fuck, I _know_ he ain't thinking straight. Item one: Xavier's concern that his prime X Man had lost focus was a tactful euphemism for Summers totally losing the plot. Item two: One-eye's continuing obsession with his acutely focused Wolverine-is-evil tunnel vision tells me that the outcome of his chat with Xavier wasn't as productive as my own. He ain't responding to Xavier's brand of composed, psychological motivation, nor to the sympathetic treading on eggs treatment from everyone else. Time for the kid gloves to come off.

"What makes ya think I didn't gizmo the computer all on my lonesome, Beam Boy?"

Lips twitching into a humourless smile he replies, "How do I know you didn't gizmo the computer? Because it's still intact. Because you're the poster child for Dumb Pride, Logan."

Abusive posturing. How honest. How refreshing. The day's beginning to pick up at last. My own smile is predatory and just as devoid of humour. I grasp the virtual gauntlet he's just thrown in my face and smack him right between the eyes with it.

"Does a dick like you work hard to graduate magna cum laude in how to be a fucking asshole or are you a prodigy?"

"That's right, Logan," Summers sneers, "You hide your ignorance behind insults and profanity. It's what you do best."

Apparently irony ain't a concept that Summers is closely acquainted with today. I regard it as a symptom of his current malaise and treat it accordingly.

"Is that a fact. What makes ya think a shambling, no-tech Cro Magnon like me don't have hidden depths capable of springing surprises like this?"

His loud snort of derision echoes in the empty hall. "Hidden depths? Well don't wait too long to plumb them Logan, because I'd hate to die of old age before I witness this miraculous event."

Perfect! Couldn't have planned it this good if I'd tried. He's set himself up for what needs to be said and now I'm gonna kick his butt into near Earth orbit.

"Like you'll live that long."

"Is that a threat?" His face remains bland, something he excels at, but he's raging at me, no doubt about it. Good. That means the fire inside him ain't dead yet. I'm hoping it ain't gonna suddenly translate into a plasma beam 'coz it'll mean rescheduling my meeting with Charlie.

"Nope, an observation. Wallowing in self pity has lost you yer edge, Summers. You made a bum call this morning and it could've got ya killed. Do that in an active combat situation and it could cost us all. 'Til you get back with the program I don't want you watching my back."

Wish I could see his eyes right now. Bet they're narrowed to dangerous slits.

"You're quitting the team?" His tone is not so much incredulous as vaguely hopeful. Bastard.

"Nope, but maybe you should, at least until ya get yer head straight. Call it self preservation but I'm gonna ask Charlie to stand yer down." I mean it too.

The calm exterior disintegrates and I whip my hands from my pockets, bracing myself for an explosion of physical or concussive force. A cavalcade of emotions flickers across his face as if someone's channel surfing them. Anger, grief, outrage, appal, shock, disbelief, murderous intent, they're all there. Finally Summers settles on stunned silence. Mouth agape, he looks almost comical but I ain't laughing.

Never one to leave a job half done I deliver up the final whammy. "Didn't want to be the one to say it 'coz I rather hoped you'd work it out for yerself. I didn't need help to gizmo the computer, Cyke. If you can so badly underestimate a member of yer own team how the fuck you gonna lead the team, make strategic decisions and fight the enemy, huh?"

Like a harbinger of doom, horrified comprehension drains the blood from Summers' face. Tension bordering on rigor mortis, locks his arms straight to his sides, hands clenching into tight fists, the skin across his knuckles taught and bone white. Jaw muscles spasm and bulge crazily as he grinds his teeth. A better candidate for an apoplectic seizure I ain't ever seen.

"You okay?"

Summers' flinches like he's been stung and for a second I think he's gonna throw a punch. He doesn't though. There's definitely some sort of conflict going on behind that visor because his face performs a series of contortions, each grimace creating its own unique profile of shadows. He's reliving the hell of the last few weeks and the scent of his pain bleeds from him like a silent scream.

"Jesus Christ!" he gasps.

"He ain't gonna help ya, kid," I assure him gently.

There ain't no love lost between me and Summers but we're both survivors and we ain't afraid of standing up and fighting for what we believe in. He's damn good at what he does and I gotta respect the man for that even if he is a pain in the ass.

He shakes his head. "Fuck."

One-eye imbues that single word with a whole world of feeling. It holdsevery instance ofagony he's suffered in hispainfully younglife. I don't take any pleasure in witnessing the kid's mortification so I ain't hanging around to watch its progress.

"I gotta go."

"Yeah," he pinches out in a hoarse whisper. Summers fixes me with his impenetrable, visored gaze. He ain't angry with me any more. The anger has turned inwards, on himself, scarcely an improvement but perhaps it's something Charlie can help him with.

I walk away.

Can't believe I just reamed Summers. Definitely something nasty in the water. Only explanation for it. Introspection is highly contagious and it plays with loaded dice. Maybe I should go find myself a nice, quiet corner and make good on my threat by playing hunt my own liver with my claws.

**Love it or loathe it, please leave a review. Believe it or not, what you think really does matter to me. :0)**


	7. Optimism overload

**Disclaimer: **Maggie's mine. Everyone else belongs to themselves and Marvel.

As promised, the plot is now under way. I have deliberately chosen to introduce a particular character because of obvious similarities. I've always been fascinated with Logan's feral nature but it is usually compared to the negative aspects of Sabretooth. There is one character with positive aspects so, although it is unlikely she'll ever get her screen debut, I've decided to introduce her to movieverse fiction. Oh, and by the way, I've taken an outsized chunk of poetic licence and twisted acknowledged facts to suit the story so I apologise in advance for upsetting anyone's purist genre sensibilities.

Apologies to any Scottish readers. Writing accents is not my strong point I'm afraid.

Thanks to MidLifeCrisis, Dr Nat, joegood2003 and last, but certainly not least, dayrunner 145 for their encouraging reviews.

**Chapter 7: Optimism overload**

The slow, muffled beat of Summers' feet on the carpeted stairs informs me the Fearless Leader is executing a strategic and dignified retreat as I head down the hall. He's still got a lot of shit to process but he's armed with a shovel now. Good luck to him.

I don't bother knocking on Xavier's study door, he ain't my fucking headmaster and I ain't never in the mood for social mores. 'Sides, he knows I'm here; I'm expected and I'm damn sure he's utilising his brain mojo. In such close proximity to his study I can't shake feeling that my confrontation with Summers drew a silent, invisible audience of one. Too bad if Xavier don't like me stealing his territory, the kid needed to be told.

Nothing about Xavier's mansion is cheap, including the study's colonial style oak doors with their matching pair of baroque – where the fuck did that come from? – handles. The elegantly scrolled brass is cool to the touch and fits comfortably in my grip. I apply pressure to the right handle and the lock mechanism engages with an almost inaudible click. As the door swings smoothly inward a waft of cool and bitingly fresh air washes over me, displacing the nauseating funk of the hall. My over-taxed sense of smell is instantly invigorated as I breath in the sweetness but I'm gonna have ta suck in a helluvva lot more ta get rid of the bitter, metallic foulness coating my mouth and throat. Stepping swiftly across the threshold of Xavier's lair, I try not to slam the door too hard against the stink.

Xavier's study is spacious, bright. sumptuously furnished and makes the hall outside feel oppressively dim by comparison. The slightly musty odour of old books, whose floor to ceiling shelves line two walls, mingles with the aromas of antique leather furniture and various types of wood. Late morning sunlight slants through the tall windows, bathing the room in it's golden warmth. The windows are so large they give an illusion of the garden being an extension of the study. One of them has been thrown wide open allowing fresh air, fragrant with the mixed scents of grass, shrubs and spring flowers, to percolate the room. Xavier occupies his customary spot behind the massive, ornately inlaid mahogany desk in the centre of the room. He ain't wearing an immaculate suit though he's discarded the sweats for a dark green turtleneck and beige pants.

His bald head catches the light as he inclines it towards me. Gesturing with a hand he says, "Thank you for coming. Please take a seat."

Sauntering across the room I relax, arms crossed, against the wall next to the open window. Here the fresh air is more concentrated and I breath it in, savouring its delicious essence as it sooths my assaulted senses. I think it's gonna take a couple of strong beers to lose the metallic taste though.

"I'm fine here thanks."

"As you wish. Your capacity to surprise seems to be without limit today, Logan," Xavier says by way of greeting. The smile on his lips extends all the way up to his steel blue eyes so I guess I ain't in for a wigging. "You communicated to Scott, in a few moments of heated exchange, a fundamental truth weeks of reasoned argument failed to deliver. Never again shall I underestimate the crude effectiveness of a short, sharp shock. Threatening to remove his power of command galvanised him in a way I failed to anticipate."

And he calls himself a telepath?

"He ain't a kid, Charlie. Quit treating him like one."

Xavier shifts his weight, straightening his spine he leans forward slightly, fingers interlocked, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. Although confined to a wheelchair he conveys the aura of a man in his prime who stands tall, confident and proud. His legs might not work so good no more but he sure as hell don't come across as either a victim or a pitiful cripple. He's powerful and dangerous and could wipe his ass with the whole world if he ever put his mind to it. For all I know he's playing me like a baby grand. Instinct tells me he's probably a straight up guy trying to do what's best. A damned gooder.

Xavier's eyes seem to look soul deep inside me. I hate it when he does that. "Yes, I see that now. I am very grateful for your timely intervention."

Realisation strikes hard and I don't like what's it's saying. "This is why the X Men have been stood down since Alkali Lake." It ain't a question, it's an accusation.

Xavier nods, his expression serious. "Scott's preoccupation with Jean's death affected him to the point where the team's dynamics have been fatally compromised."

Fucking unbelievable. I know Xavier has flaws but this bastard is a doozy. "You saying that if Summers falls apart the team does too? How fucking stupid is that? You might be one helluvva teacher but I gotta tell ya Charlie, you know jack about commanding a field unit."

A condescending smile twists Xavier's lips but it's only skin deep. The rest of him tenses and his interlocked fingers bunch up very briefly into a single, knuckle-white fist. Must've crawled under his skin good and proper this time.

"Logan, the X Men are not a combat unit, they are peacekeepers."

Yeah, right. If ya believe that then yer dumber than I look.

"Fer crying out loud, Charlie! When're ya gonna wake up and smell the napalm? There's a fucking war raging outside your gates and looking catwalk hot for truth, justice and the right to tell Mom her apple pie tastes like puke ain't gonna keep your people alive. The world don't work that way. Never has, never will. Ya can't send kids into a fight armed only with a pre-emptive smile and a tactical arsenal of weapons grade pacifist bullshit. Look me in they eye and tell me that Summers' deliberate failure to kill Magneto on Liberty Island is justifiable."

He looks me in the eye but he ain't smiling no more. "Killing is not the answer…"

"And how you gonna peddle that chickenshit hogwash to the families of the thousands of people around the world who died when Magneto sicced you on 'em?"

The expression on his face is unfathomable. He ain't angry, exactly. More like exasperated, like a parent trying to reason with a defiant kid. I ain't getting through to him.

"Erik was once a man of peace and somewhere deep inside that man still exists. I can persuade him to return to the path he has strayed from…"

Shit. This delusion is gonna be the death of us all. "Magneto is a psycho nut job who needs to be put down fast. He ain't your friend anymore Charlie and the world ain't never gonna be safe with him loose in it. The only way to stop a bastard like him is put a gun to his head and pebbledash the nearest sidewalk with his brains."

"Violence only begets more violence," Xavier admonishes.

Fuck, enough with the Reasonable Voice already.

"Then why keep me around in your prissy-ass school? I ain't ever gonna turn the other cheek. I'm a killer. Extreme prejudice made flesh. I hurt people for a living. It's all I'm good for."

"Logan…"

I ain't finished yet! I'm gonna have my say and yer gonna listen, dammit.

"That's it, ain't it? Deadly force turns your stomach but you can't deny its effectiveness in extreme circumstances. You need someone like me around to do the dirty work your kiss-butt cheerleaders can't handle."

"Logan, I need you to be quiet just for a moment please."

Xavier's eyes are closed and he's pinching the bridge of his nose as if he has a headache. I hope it's an industrial strength one. "You are a valuable addition to the team, I can't deny that. As much as it pains me to admit it, there are times when resorting to physical force to prevent loss of life becomes inevitable. However, premeditated use of violence will not be tolerated. The lessons of hindsight can be harsh but we do not have the right to prejudge people for crimes they have not yet committed. Peace through justice and passive resistance can be moulded into a universal constant and will eventually prevail. Mahatma Gandhi taught the world that."

Sure, he taught the world a lesson and got himself royally butt-fucked for his trouble.

"Gandhi was assassinated and his dream destroyed. Almost sixty years on the people he tried to unite are champing at the bit to nuke the crap out of each other. The fuck up factor inherent in human nature is one universal constant that ain't never gonna change no matter how hard ya try. Even an emotional retard like me I can see that."

Xavier's smiling again.

"What?"

"You are standing in my study eloquently debating the philosophy of human nature and the political history of the Indian sub-continent yet you insist that killing people is all you are good for."

"Fuck you, Charlie."

"I believe it would be more productive if you work with me, Logan."

"Whatever."

"You are obviously an experienced leader…"

Ah, shit. He ain't saying what I think he's saying is he? "Don't go there, bub," I warn him.

"…with a valuable insight in the strategies of team cohesion, tactics and survival. I think we have much to learn from each other and Scott would benefit from your experience greatly. It is vital we continue this discussion in the presence of the team as soon as possible I suggest tomorrow morning, once Scott has fully analysed the impact of your conversation and recovered his composure. However, there is another matter I wish to discuss with you today."

He ain't offering me One-eye's job. Suits me 'coz now I don't haveta tell him to stuff it.

"The school is about to induct a new pupil."

The turn of the conversation is almost too surreal. One moment we're arguing the finer points of fighting for our lives and the next he's switched to talking mundane crap about some new kid. I'm beginning to wonder if Xavier's grip on the situation ain't quite as strong as I hope it is.

"Really." And why should I give a shit?

"She is the daughter of a very good friend of mine."

Instinctively, I don't like where this is leading. "I'm happy for ya but what's it gotta do with me?"

" I believe you can make a valuable contribution to this girl's education."

Not a snowflake's chance in Hell, Cue-ball. "Screw that! I'll kick bad guy butt for ya but no way am I joining the faculty."

Xavier leans back in his chair, head slightly cocked. "I'm not asking you to. We have more than adequate staff to supply her academic needs."

"Then what d'ya need me for? What the fuck can I offer a kid?"

"I would like you to help her control her mutation."

This has got to be some bizarre, screwed up dream. Either that or Xavier has not only lost the plot, he's forgotten he ever possessed one. "You want me, a mind-fucked feral berserker, to teach a kid control of her mutation."

"Yes."

"You're shitting me."

"I assure you, this request is serious." And so is his expression. Deadly fucking serious.

"What part of _I lost control of my rage and almost offed Summers_ don't you understand Charlie?"

"Your feral rage, which you succeeded in overcoming most admirably by the way, was not responsible for the near disaster this morning. The main culprit was your lack of trust compounded by Scott's unfortunate error of judgement."

"Bullshit!"

"I'm not going to argue this point any further, Logan. Suffice to say, your actions since arriving at the school speak louder than any number of words and you have proven yourself more than adequate for the task. This is a delicate situation. At least listen to what Moira has to say before making a decision. While failure to convince you would be disappointing you will not be pressured into making any decision you feel uncomfortable with. And if your final answer is, indeed, a refusal then I want it to be for the right reason and rather than based on a false premise."

The vehemence of Xavier's delivery hits me in the face like a slap. I wonder how much of a choice I've got here.

"The right reason? What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

Xavier's reply is interrupted by a knock on the door. It opens and a slim, middle-aged woman with neatly bobbed auburn hair strolls leisurely into the room, preceded by a fresh infusion of stench from the hall. This has to be the mysterious Moira. Even a backwoods Canuck like me can see her pink cashmere sweater and pale grey trousers ooze class. Her natural feminine scent has been enhanced by the pleasant, vaguely spicy smell of organic products. Customary affectation or has she done her homework to create an impact? Beneath her delicately applied make-up there is a tightness in the skin around her vivid green eyes; a tightness I've seen on too many faces since returning from Alkali Lake.

Hot on Moira's heals is Maggie carrying a large tray laden with two steaming pots and associated paraphernalia. From the aromas wafting from the pots she has supplied both coffee and tea and I raise an appreciative eyebrow at the size of the mug sitting next to the two delicate bone china cups. Maggie smiles back, her brown eyes twinkling with gold highlights.

Placing the tray carefully on Xavier's desk she says, "There you go Charles. Earl Grey for Moira and yourself and strong black coffee for Logan."

"Thank you Maggie." Xavier says, inclining his head graciously.

Turning her attention to Moira, Maggie says, "I'll meet you in the garage later, pet and we can do some more catching up on the way into town."

Reading the mutually harmonious vibes surrounding the two women like an aura, it's plain to see they are old friends. Aware that I am very much an outsider in the company of these people I feel more isolated than usual but I ain't gonna let them use that against me.

"Will do, hen." Moira's Scottish brogue takes me by surprise. I'd assumed she was American or perhaps English. Last night I hadn't been close enough to catch her accent when she arrived, only the feminine quality of her voice.

Maggie winks at me and radiates cheerful encouragement, presumably to put me at ease. I get the distinct impression she approves of whatever's about to go down and feral instinct inoculates me against her charm. This is one tough crowd I'm dealing with and I got a sneaking suspicion I'm out of my damned depth here. Maggie exits the room but seems to emit a trail of ionised optimism in her wake that makes my scalp prickle. If she could bottle her metaphysical essence she'd be a very rich woman.

Xavier wheels himself out from behind the desk. "Before we get down to business I believe introductions are in order. Moira, this is Logan. Logan, this is Moira MacTaggert, a very dear friend of mine."

The light in Xavier's eyes informs me the relationship goes a lot deeper than dear friend. The pheromones they're giving off, while not those of arousal or desire, nevertheless hint at intimacy. They might be dear friends now but I'd give odds they were once lovers.

Moira walks towards me, her right hand outstretched to take mine. Her movement is fluid, lithe as a cat, carrying her gracefully across the few feet separating us. Taking my hand her own I find her touch is soft, warm and I notice her nails, while free of lacquer, are polished and satin smooth. Sunlight transforms her hair into a burnished red halo just a couple of shades darker than Jeanie's. Her skin glows with a healthy outdoor tan and, middle-aged or not, she's still a beautiful woman. Xavier has good taste.

She fixes me with her lively, intelligent eyes. "Pleased tae meet yeh, Logan."

Her voice is rich, soft and cultured, filtering through the air like a song. And God, she smells good. I let go her hand quickly. Jeezus it's been too long since I got laid.

"Uh, back at ya."

"Charles has told me so much about yeh."

"Is that a fact." I throw an angry glare in Xavier's direction. The bastard just smiles blandly at me.

"I'm here tae enrol my daughter at the school. Has Charles appraised yeh of Rahne's circumstances?"

What a weird label to hang on a kid. "Nope. Guess he wanted me to hear it straight from the horse's mouth."

"In that case," she casts a glance over her shoulder, "While I bring yeh up tae speed on matters, Charles can play Mother."

Mind quietly boggling at the thought of Xavier playing 'Mother', I breathe in Moira's delicious proximity and realise she isn't a mutant, she's a normal. That's when I my heightened olfactory sense latches onto it. Clinging to her clothing is the faint but undeniable odour of a hormonally charged pubescent girl. No doubt about it, the scent contains distinct and horrifyingly familiar undertones of feral.

"She's like me, ain't she?" I say without thinking.

The notion of dealing with a hormone-fuelled feral teenager fills me with dread. I'd sooner face off against a dozen Sabretooths. Xavier must need his fucking head examining if he thinks he's gonna dump this on me.

"You are uniquely qualified to help this young girl, Logan," Xavier chips in as he arranges the cups on the tray and picks up the teapot.

"So, no pressure, huh Charlie?" I observe with undisguised sarcasm.

Moira purses her rose pink lips and turns face Xavier. "I though yeh were leaving the telling of it tae me, Charles. What yeh been saying tae the lad that makes him look like he wants tae bolt from the room like a scalded cat?"

"Only that the ultimate decision is his to make, my dear."

"And so it should be." Returning her attention to me, her forehead slightly creased in a thoughtful frown, she continues, "There's nae denying yer acceptance will please me nae end but dinnae fash yersel' o'er refusing, d'yeh ken?"

I nod. Ain't gonna feel guilty about saying no at all.

She places her hand on my arm. "Come sit yersel' doon while we talk."

"I don't think so." Her touch is nothing more sinister than a friendly gesture but I don't like my personal space being invaded and stare at the offending limb. Realising she's made a mistake she withdraws quickly, her smile offering an embarrassed apology.

"I prefer to stand," I reply gruffly. And not just 'coz the air is fresher on this side of the room. Keeping my distance from these two is essential to keeping my resolve intact. I'm exhausted, I need my wits about me and I only trust Xavier's promise of non-coercion as far as I can shove his wheelchair up Summers' ass. That's to say, not far enough.

"Would you like some coffee, Logan?" Xavier enquires.

"No." I'd give anything for a beer though.

Xavier flashes me a knowing smile. You eavesdropping on my thoughts Charlie?

"We're none of us getting any younger here," I growl.

"I agree," Moira breezes. "Charles has explained some o' yer troubled past tae me…"

"I wish someone would explain it to me," I mutter darkly.

"…and I need tae reassure mysel' that taking advantage of yer personal experience will be the best option tae help Rahne through this crisis."

Reverse psychology! Christ, these two are well matched. Moira must be another fucking shrink. She's inverted our roles and suddenly I'm gonna be explaining and defending my skills like I'm pitching them to a prospective employer? Yer gonna haveta do better'n that, lady.

"I'm listening. Make yer case."

Moira accepts a cup of tea and folds herself gracefully into one of Xavier's over stuffed leather armchairs. She takes a couple of sips before putting the china down on a convenient table.

"Rahne is my adopted daughter, Logan. I have bought her tae the school so that she can be with others of her kind. But she has a problem controlling her mutation and I believe that yeh might be best qualified tae help her deal wi' this."

Might? I'm all they've got. Wish she'd quit playing her fucking games and talk straight. "What's her problem?"

"For want o' a better description, Rahne is a mutant werewolf."

The kid can wolf out? That's not a problem, that's a tragedy of epic proportions. I should know 'coz I'm more'n halfway there myself.

"I see." Moira's hesitant; she's struggling with some sort of personal dilemma. Something about the way her body language is slightly agitated and her eyes don't quite meet mine is so damn symptomatic. "So, you gonna tell me what the real problem is?"

Xavier beams at me encouragingly, like I'm a prize pupil or something. Fucking optimist.

Moira raises her delicate eyebrows in amazement. "Yer very astute Logan. Let me give yeh a potted history.

"Almost a year ago I discovered Rahne wandering the moors near my home. She was half starved and I dinnae think there was an inch o' skin on her that wasn't bruised or scraped. Her father, Reverend Sinclair, is or rather was, an Anglican minister fer the Church o' Scotland. Her mother died giving birth tae the poor wee lassie. Sinclair suffered a mental breakdown which radically altered his personality, changing him intae a religious maniac. He became delusional, believing his wife tae be the worst kind o' sinner, the reason why God punished her. Invariably his twisted reasoning told him the child was tainted wi' her mother's sin so, tae save her, he began tae beat the fear o' god intae her from an early age.

"When she was eight he beat her so hard it triggered an immature, partial manifestation o' her mutation. Witnessing his daughter sprouting large teeth and claws confirmed his fears and fuelled his delusion. God had given him a mission tae redeem his daughter, tae free her o' possession by an evil spirit. Sinclair spent the next five years trying tae beat the demon out o' her or destroy her in the attempt. He left the mainland and took up a ministry on a remote part o' Stornaway so that he could hide his shame. When Rahne reached puberty her mutation matured wi' her. One day he beat her and she fully transformed intae a wolf. Terrified o' his rage and unable tae control hersel' she bit and clawed her father and escaped."

"Shoulda killed the bastard," I growl. Sicko cocksuckers like that who beat up on kids are lower than scum.

Moira shakes her head. "That would ha' seen her locked up fer life and the key thrown away, Logan."

"She's entitled to defend herself."

"Rahne is a mutant, Logan. Nae matter how extenuating the circumstances, if she had killed her father she would ha' been imprisoned. As it was I had a tough time explaining tae the local constabulary that what happened was an accident."

"Yeah." I know through bitter experience how much cops like mutants.

"I took her in and alerted the authorities. Her father was arrested, declared unfit tae stand trial and is now detained indefinitely in a secure hospital. The local social services had nae idea how to cope wi' a mutant teenage werewolf so they willingly dumped their burden ontae me because, apart from Charles, I probably know more about mutants and the X gene than anyone else. Tae keep her safe I legally adopted her. She responds well tae kindness and she's very intelligent. However, she has a mortal fear o' the animal she becomes when threatened or angry. She has nae control over the wolf and I fear that, in her feral state, not only is she a danger tae hersel' but she might also be a danger tae others. Yer personal insight of the dual human/animal psyche and the heightened senses associated wi' the condition may be her only hope o' ever becoming integrated wi' society.

I've listened. I've observed Moira's sincerity. I am painfully aware of what unrestrained feral rage can do and sympathise with her predicament and that of her daughter. No kid should have shit like that happen to them and I'd tear the limbs off anyone I caught doing it. But I can't help the kid. Fuck, I don't even know how to help myself. Anger forms a cold, hard lump in my chest. Xavier discussed my mutation with this woman knowing full well she has a kid with feral attributes before consulting me. What fucking right did he have giving her false hope?

"I can't help her." I snap out more harshly than I intended. "The kid needs a expert help, not someone who's even more fucked up in the head than she is."

Xavier wheels himself closer. "There isn't a psychiatrist on the planet who can teach her to control her animal nature Logan. You are the one person best suited to help her."

All attempts of psychological manipulation have ceased. Xavier is now focused on appealing to the shred of nobility he's so desperate to convince me I possess. If it's there it's been too atrophied by rage, loathing and suspicion to respond. Suddenly I hate Xavier's smug logic. He's so fucking sure he has the answer to everything.

"Bullshit!" I face Moira, determined to make her see sense, see me for the animal I am. "I've no idea who I really am. My mind and body were torn apart and put back together in ways that ain't natural. I got a hole in my memory that Bill Gates could rent space in and still leave enough room to hold the Super Bowl _and_ the World Series at the same time. I have a temper that makes Genghis Khan look like a prom queen. I've killed people; lot's of 'em. I've toured the Canadian cage fighting circuit for fifteen years and beaten men to a pulp for money because that is what I'm best at. I booze, I smoke and I like hot women. I'm more'n half animal and his morning I lost control of my feral rage and almost crushed Summers' skull. I ain't no role model for a kid and I ain't fit to teach her anything."

"Charles has already explained that tae me. I'm nae interested in what yeh do, only what yeh are and how yeh cope wi' it."

Damn! Does she wanna see her brat get hurt? Time to go for broke.

"Did Charlie tell you how I stabbed one of his kids?"

Moira's on her feet now, advancing on me, her green eyes flashing dangerously, her gaze intense, determined. "Whose life yeh later saved even though yeh knew it might cost yeh yer own. Stabbing Rogue was an accident that happened because yeh wasnae fully conscious and yeh hadn't expected the bairn tae be there. Saving her life was a conscious choice. Nae only that, yeh saved most o' the children from capture when the school was raided by commandos. Rahne will nae be hanging oot in yeh room tae get hersel' hurt. Yeh might have rough edges Logan but I know yeh've what it takes tae help Rahne."

The aversion therapy ain't working. Popping the claws of my right hand and ignoring the agony the action brings, I wave them under her nose. To her credit she doesn't flinch.

"These ain't fucking teaching aids."

"Aye, at least we've found something we can agree on." Moira folds her hand across her chest and rocks delicately back on her heels. She ain't gonna give up on the fight so easy.

"I feel sorry for the kid but the answer's gotta be no. I ain't gonna screw her life up more than it already is. I ain't gonna be responsible for shoving her over the edge."

"Logan," Xavier interjects, his tone level, calm and irritating. "You will not be alone in helping Rahne master her mutation because you will be working in conjunction with both Maggie and myself. At least take time to think about it, twenty four hours at least. You may feel differently tomorrow. Perhaps you should talk to Rahne in the meantime. What she has to say might help you put things in sharper perspective."

I gotta get out of this room. No longer propping up the wall I take a step towards Xavier. "I'll give you your twenty four hours, Charlie but I ain't gonna change my mind. For the kid's sake."

I turn and leave, closing the door very firmly behind me, almost gladly forsaking the fresh air of the study for the choking miasma in the hall. Pausing, I scrub my hand down my face, trying to gather my thoughts and cool my newly awoken anger. Xavier ain't gonna take no for an answer, despite his assurances I would be free to make the decision without interference. Suddenly I become aware of their muffled voices filtering through the door and vector my keen hearing to pick up what they're saying .

"…nae doubt Logan can help Rahne control her wolfiness but forcing the lad intae a corner isnae the way tae proceed wi' him. He's nae comfortable wi' the proposition, is tae smart tae be manipulated and isnae going tae give ground because yeh've the asking of it. He's nae great trust fer yeh, Charles and pressing him with yeh cleverness isnae the way tae his heart or his head.

"Rahne has the services o' you and Maggie, two o' the best psychologists in the business tae help her overcome the trauma her father visited on her. While there's nae doubt Logan can help the poor lassie wi' her wolfiness I recommend a cautious approach. According tae Maggie, the poor laddie's even more broken in the head than Rahne and it shows painfully. Push him tae hard and yeh'll lose him. Gi' him time tae get tae know the bairn and then maybe they'll get tae healing each other.

"You are quite correct Moira. Beneath that fierce exterior beats the heart of a good man. He simply needs time to get used to the idea. I'm confident Logan will make the right decision."

"I'm warning yeh, Charles. Don't push this. I believe Logan has already reached the right decision – as he sees it. And that refusal sounded bloody final tae me."

Good! Moira's a realist. Maybe if she hangs around the school long enough some of it'll rub off on Charlie. The kid is better off without my help.

"Then we'll just have to convince him otherwise, my dear."

I don't hang around to hear more.

Like I said – fucking optimist.

**Love it or loathe it, please leave a review. Believe it or not, what you think really does matter to me. :0)**


	8. Life is a real bitch sometimes

**Disclaimer: **Must be engraved on your heart by now. :0)

This chapter is a little later than anticipated due to the edit becoming a full blown rewrite. Another long chapter since this seems to please my readers. Wolfsbane's character has been futzed with because this is movie canon and not comicverse. Please forgive the poetic licence.

Apologies to any Scottish readers. Trying to render your rich, vibrant accent into words hasn't improved I'm afraid so I've kept it to a bare minimum.

Thanks to **MidLifeCrisis**, **joegood2003**, **dayrunner 145**, **Sonder** and **Joruk** for their encouraging reviews.

**Chapter 8: **Life's a real bitch sometimes.

The mansion's as quiet as it ever gets during daylight. Kids and teaching staff have gone to the movies, gone to a game, gone on picnics, gone shopping or whatever they do to pass time on Saturday afternoons. Xavier's still in his study and, for all I know, plotting the next step of his Logan integration process and working out exactly how he intends to thrust a barbed square peg into the narrow round hole of his scheme of things. I'm thinking maybe I should just get the hell out of Dodge right now because I gotta sneaking suspicion I have the bastard exactly where he wants me.

Kurt seems to have fallen asleep in the gym while hanging by his tail. Or he could be meditating or praying or something. I don't know and I don't fucking care. The blue guy gives me the creeps the way he can appear on my six, practically up my ass without any damn warning. And what the fuck's with that evil smelling cloud thing he has going? Ain't exactly silent but the stink's a thousand times deadlier than any cheeser dropped in the history of killer farts. Has he no conception what it does to someone with hyper-senses? Does he care? And that blue smoke of his burns my nose and throat worse'n breathing acid. He's so fucking proud of that freaky scalpel sin art on his hide. Next time he peels the paint within fifteen feet of me and it ain't in the line of duty, I swear I'll carve him some lines he'll never come back from and claim self defence. Saving Rogue's life only buys the guy so much credit. 'Ro finding him cute is no protection at all.

Summers is in the garage stripping down his bike, busying his hands while he's working stuff out in his head. Recognise the occupied expression, know the symptoms, suffered 'em myself more times'n I can count. Maybe if he'd let go once in a while, get drunk or get laid or get a fucking life he wouldn't be such a miserable asswipe. No one would think him a lesser man for it, except perhaps Xavier and he don't count. I'd drag One-eye along with me tonight but somehow I don't think listening to a live rock band in a rough trade bar full of drunk, punch-happy bikers is what float's the Fearless Leader's downtime activities boat. Bad for his all American, clean cut college boy image, ya see. And that's his problem. The dick don't know how to let go. Maybe he's plain scared of what'll happen if he ever does. I'm toying with the idea of asking him anyway just to watch him squirm.

The stash of contraband beer in my room has been reduced to fumes, metabolised fluid and recyclable trash. My room's a depressing mess so I gather up the trash and seal it in a bag. The linen of my unmade bed stinks of the sweat and fear brought on by night terrors so I strip it, dump it in the hamper in the housekeeper's room and grab fresh sheets from the linen cupboard. After dumping the trash I head back down to the basement and shove my wet laundry into one of the dryers. I ain't in any danger of becoming housebroken but there's no point living like a slob and annoying the crap out of everyone else just to prove the point. At a loose end I head for the games room hoping I'll be lucky and find the place deserted. My luck's in and I pass an uneventful, blissfully solitary half hour playing pool against myself.

"Hey Logan."

Guess Luck's on short time today. Rogue strolls into the room, still full of bounce, her cheeks dimpled by her smile. I notice she's changed the long sleeved T shirt she was wearing earlier for a red, long sleeved, even tighter fitting number with a low neckline and a high waistline. She's wearing black leather gloves to cover her lethal skin, impractical for indoors but they look better than opera gloves. A long, silky black scarf forms parallel lines to her midriff. She also smells good, different from this morning. I'm certain this little show's for my benefit which is why I've been avoiding her lately. She's trying too damn hard to get my attention, the wrong kind of attention. Rogue's gonna have to learn I can never be her one and only. Friendly's fine but if she's looking for something racier she's better off with kids her own age. Like Mr. Frosty. And if he hurts her I'll flay this frozen ass.

"Thought you'd gone shopping with 'Ro."

"Got things to do. Ah'm doing a favour for Maggie."

I'd better not be the favour.

"Then don't let me stop you." Rogue's smile fades and I instantly regret my words.

"Ah guess you're angry about the geek pool. Ah'm sorry about what Ah said earlier, Logan. Scott came by, explained that it was all a misunderstanding and apologised."

Nothing like throwing on the sackcloth and ashes in the name of damage limitation is there? "Fu…damn! Musta blinked or something and missed it. Would almost've donated a 'nad ta see that." Almost.

"Never seen the guy look so embarrassed before."

"Go figure. Administering yer own hanging wedgie in public can be a bitch. The butt wad should keep his stupid f…flipping opinions to himself next time."

Rogue laughed. "Maggie put it a little more tactfully than that."

"What did she say?"

"Something about studying form which Ah still don't understand and asking me why on Earth Ah would choose to back a donkey to win a one horse race."

That's tactful? My turn to laugh. "Maggie said that?"

"Yeah. Ah think she likes you."

Paranoia runs it's icy fingers up my spine and sinks its talons into the train wreck I call a brain. Yeah, she'd like me to do a favour for her pal, Moira. So was she putting Rogue straight about Summers or sending me a subliminal message? Not wanting to believe Maggie capable of using the kid to fuck me over I try and turn my cynicism down a notch or two.

"Or maybe a smart guy keeps on the best side of a good cook, kid."

Rogue frowns and fiddles with her gloves and I feel her discomfort escalating as her frown deepens. "Ah didn't know you were into computers, Logan. Ah'm sorry if Ah came across like a total spaz."

She's got those big, moist puppy dog eyes that make me want to take her in my arms and give her a reassuring hug. I resist because it's exactly what she's angling for. "I ain't, so don't be, kid," I assure her with gruff gentleness.

"We okay, you and me?"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?"

She walks around to my side of the table and starts sizing up the game in progress. "Can Ah play or is two a crowd?"

Without a word I reach into the nearby wall rack hand her a cue.

"You're still angry with me," she accuses.

"Nope." How can I stay angry with a sweet kid like you, darlin'?

"Liar."

Making a show of pretending to be offended I say, "Hey, I get enough abuse off One-Eye. You gonna start in on me too?"

She grins and ignores my question. "Spots or stripes?"

Spots? Yeah, I suppose you could call them that. "Spots. Your turn."

"Orange ball in middle pocket."

"It ain't the eight ball so ya don't need to call the shot."

"Okay."

Taking the cue she hunches over the table, sighting the cue on the white ball.

"Darn," she mutters as her long, dark brown hair flops over the table. She takes a band from her pocket, bunches her hair into a ponytail and fixes it in place. A few strands of her pure white shock lock, too short to be confined by the band, frame her face alluringly. I notice her pupils are wider than they should be and there's now a very faint sheen of sweat on her brow and cheeks. Her face is flushed and I'm picking up a sudden and very disturbing upsurge of hormones emanating from her. Aw shit, on top of everything else I gotta deal with this? Pulling a grumpy but cute face she tucks the strands behind her ears and picks up the cue. The tip of her pink tongue protruding as she concentrates, Rogue lines up her cue once more.

Trying hard to ignore the signals she's giving off I offer her some advice to keep her mind on the game. "Ya need to kiss the orange real gentle to send it down the pocket, kid".

She giggles as if I'd just said something risqué. "Thanks."

Rogue's cleavage inflates dramatically as she takes an exceptionally deep breath. Maybe it's an aid to concentration but I don't think so. The wiggling of her ass confirms it as she makes a ridiculous display of positioning her feet and hips. I catch the little minx flicking me a quick glance to see if I've noticed. This ain't Rogue. She's acting out the stupid _seduction by numbers_ guide from a dumb magazine she was reading yesterday and it's as false as a politician's smile. Gonna bring this charade crashing down in flames right now.

"I ain't ya Prince Charming, kid, and you ain't legal so ya can quit with the Lolita crap already."

Laying her cue across the pool table she asks in a quiet voice, "What do you mean?"

Rogue knows exactly what I mean. She looks at me, her brown doe eyes wide and beginning to brim with tears. Goddamn heartbreaker.

"It means I'll be ya friend, I'll be ya surrogate bro', I'll even be ya guardian angel if that's what ya want. What I can never be is the shining armour dude on the white charger. Eternal love and happily ever after don't feature in my game plan."

Neither does polluting your innocence. Dammit, kid, look at me, look at what I am. You'll never be old enough to dance the erection shuffle with a lecherous, whoring bastard like me. I know ya don't wanna hear this but it's for yer own good, baby girl.

Christ, the tears are streaming down her face. The scent of her desire has abated but is her misery any better? Don't cry, kid. Please don't. I ain't worth it.

"But, Ah love you, Logan," she sobs in a staccato series of halting breaths.

Don't so this to me, to yourself. Gotta be cruel to be kind. "Don't work that way, kid. I'm sorry but that's how it is."

"You don't love me?"

Rogue's deep, racking sobs do interesting things to her chest so I look away. While fat, salty tears squeeze from between her lids, I'm feeling panic rising inside me like bile. This conversation is rapidly going pear shaped and I can't stand to see her crying so I need to think fast. I quickly soul search my relationship with Rogue and what I discover surprises me. I hope I ain't gonna regret admitting this.

"Course I do, in a guardian angel guy kinda way. You're my best girl and my best friend."

"I am?" she sniffles.

"Yeah."

Feeling raw and self conscious, I put my arms around her shoulders and embrace her gently like a parent comforting a child, holding her close enough to soak my shirt with her tears. Her scent is so sweet and fresh, no longer infused with the musk of desire. Beneath her clothing her warm body pulses to the vital rhythm of her heartbeat and it feels so good to hold a beautiful, innocent girl in my arms. It can never be though. Still sobbing quietly she snuggles my chest with her right cheek and throws her arms around my waist while I kiss the top of her head and commence to pat her shoulders in what I hope she interprets as a brotherly, reassuring way. That's when I realise I'm still holding the damn cue so I let it fall to the ground. There's a prolonged series of dull thuds as it bounces to a rest on the thick carpet.

"Don't leave too many snot trails down my shirt will ya, darlin'. People might think I've developed some perverted freakoid slug fetish."

Her shoulders convulse beneath my arms, with laughter this time. I hold her away from me, Protecting my skin with the ends of her scarf I cup her face in my hands, slowly trailing my thumbs across her cheeks, brushing away the tears. Her sun-flecked eyes, still heavy with unshed tears, glisten like morning dew. Such contact is precious to her and she looks into my eyes, so trusting and grateful it wrenches my heart.

"That's my girl."

"Ah really do love you, Logan."

"Yeah, I know."

"Maybe one day…" she begins wistfully.

"Don't."

"Okay."

"Ya can do me one real big favour though, kiddo."

Using her sleeve to dry her eyes she says a little too eagerly, "Sure."

"Stop reading those trashy magazines. Don't want my best girl being lead astray by the type of sleazoid crap you and yer two girlfriends were bumping heads over yesterday."

She goes from tender to indignant in a heartbeat. Ya gotta admire her fire and resilience.

"How did you know?"

"That Jubilee kid's got a some yap on her, whispers real loud, ya know."

"You were eavesdropping?" she accuses, appalled.

"I was trying not to until I heard my name mentioned." That much is true although I earwigged shamelessly after that.

"It was a private conversation!"

"In the dining room?"

"We were talking about boys."

"You were talking about using that stupid seduction guide on me."

Her tear reddened face turns an unflattering shade of puce. "What's wrong with reading an article on how to attract the man of your dreams?"

"One, I ain't the man of yer dreams and two, that article has nothing to do with forging a meaningful relationship and everything to do with a being a tick list for a steamy one night stand."

"You're kidding me," she gasps.

God, you're such an innocent. It's what makes you so special.

"Take it from someone who's been around the block more times'n I can count."

'Coz I been there so many times Rogue. I wrote the damn manual."

"Oh."

"You gonna take yer shot now?"

"Yeah," she says as she dabs at her eyes with her sleeve again.

"Some time today would be nice."

"Oh, you!" She cuffs me on the shoulder playfully. We're back to harmless flirting and that's fine by me.

Rogue takes up the cue and, without a repeat performance of her wriggling and jiggling, her eyes narrowed in concentration, she pulls back her cue arm. Her angle is okay but her posture is too stiff and she makes the stroke way too hard. White strikes orange with a loud _clack _that sends the orange ball leaping across the table with enough force to bounce it off a couple of rails before coming to rest. The white ball cannons straight into a top pocket.

"Great shot!"

She sticks out her bottom lip. "Ya think?"

I'm feeling in a generous mood right now so I ask, "Wanna try again?"

"Yeah."

"Chalk up."

I retrieve the white and return the orange to its former position as she chalks the end of her cue.

"You're too tense. Relax your muscles so your movement will flow smoothly and you can control the cue more easily."

She lowers herself over the table, lithe, smelling good enough to eat and cue poised to strike. "Like this?"

"Yeah."

"Shall Ah take the shot now?"

"Not just yet. You can't hold the cue rock steady if you're wearing gloves. Take 'em off."

She looks at me, uncertainty raising frown lines. "You sure?"

"You can't hurt a piece of polished wood, kiddo." She pulls off her gloves, drops them at her feet and takes up the cue again.

"Okay, you place your hand so." Careful to avoid physical contact I stand beside her and demonstrate the position necessary to hold the cue steady. She adopts a similar posture. "That's good. Okay, you need to kiss the ball gently on the left and spin it into the pocket. Too soft and it'll stop short. Too hard and…well ya've seen it for yerself."

Rogue gives me a lopsided grin, her eyes searching mine. Squatting down beside her I grin and turn my attention to sighting along the cue.

"Okay, you're ready to take the shot. Don't look at the cue ball, look at where you want the cue ball to strike. Okay, pull your arm back. Relax, keep the motion fluid. That's it. Now gently does it."

Rogue strikes the cue ball off centre with a touch too much force and it clips the orange at too oblique an angle. She misses the pocket but not by much.

"Not bad. You'll get better with practice."

"Will you teach me?"

"Yeah, I suppose…." The words die on my lips as I catch a whiff of something wild, the same scent I'd detected clinging to Moira's clothes. A young girl, small for her age, strolls hesitantly into the games room. This has gotta be Rahne MacTaggert. She sees me and freezes, body taut as an overstretched wire, her eyes as wide as a startled rabbit. Fear and adrenalin sour the air as she hovers on the verge of flight. For a second I expect her to turn tail and run but instead her nostrils flare as she tests the air. The scents flowing from her are mixed, indecisive. I detect peppery strands of anger woven with her fear and she's poised, muscles tensed, still unsure whether to stand her ground like a predator or flee like prey.

I remain motionless, not wanting to frighten this strange, cat-eyed little creature. With her reddish brown hair and green eyes, she bears a striking physical resemblance to Moira but her scent don't lie. It's evident to me they share no biological kinship.

"Hey, Rahne," Rogue says as she flashes a friendly smile. "Logan's going to teach me how to shoot pool. Want to join in?"

At first, Rahne doesn't react, just stands there looking for all the world like she's waiting for the world to end or something. Then she grimaces, nostrils flaring once more as if she's caught a whiff of something putrid. She sizes me up with her eyes.

"I'm smellin' tears an' pain. Did he hurt yeh, Rogue? Jus' say the word an' I'll spiflicate the bastard."

Are my ears deceiving me or did Short-stuff just threaten to rip me a new one?

"That's one hell of an entrance kid. Wanna leave and try again 'coz ya sure need the practice?"

Bristling with attitude, she looks me straight in the eye, her upper lip curling into a snarl. Her fierce stare is penetrating and she doesn't break eye contact as she speaks again.

"I'm nae afraid o' yeh mister."

That's a lie. Her heart is leaping like a frog on a hotplate and she can't hide the rank smell of her fear.

"Say it often enough and ya might even start ta believe it but we both know it's a crock."

Rahne flinches as if struck by an invisible hand and I catch the ghost of a stillborn whimper as she swallows hard. Her tail, had she manifested one, would be firmly tucked between her legs. Conversely, her eyes blaze green-gold with hatred, not just for me personally but for all things male. Outwardly there isn't a blemish on her but the damage pooling in hers eyes reveals the mutilated soul cringing within. Her emotional pain is crippling, running through her like a seam of poison and giving off fumes. Rahne is a feral bomb looking for somewhere to explode, posing a danger to anyone unlucky enough to be in her immediate vicinity when the teeth and claws violently erupt. Moira is right to be concerned for her daughter.

"Rahne, what's wrong? Please don't be frightened. Logan might look scary but Ah promise you, he's a real nice guy." There's worry in Rogue's voice, puzzlement too. She doesn't sense or understand the negative current of scents and emotion rolling off the kid.

"Nice men dinnae stink o' spilt blood."

The odour's faint but still detectable despite the shower. Is that what's freaking her out? Or the fact that she's alone in a strange place and temporarily cut adrift from the one stable, safe haven in her life, Moira.

"The blood's mine."

Sniffing hard she snarls, "Yeh've nae got a wound on yeh." She glares at me, her disbelief evident.

"And neither has Rogue. Look kid, I know you've got problems but I ain't one of 'em."

"And I'll see tae it yeh stay that way."

The notion of this little scrap of humanity calling me out is so absurd it's almost funny. Rahne obviously thinks otherwise because her fingernails morph into short but wickedly sharp claws.

Rogue tries to act as arbitrator. "Don't be silly, Rahne. Logan's my friend. You don't have anything to be afraid of."

Rogue's struggling to keep her temper even, seemingly unaware that her new friend is desperately trying to protect her from potential harm. It's obvious to me Rahne believes that men, all men, are brutal monsters who should be put down. And Xavier wants me to try and help this kid? Fuck! How much shit can one guy endure in a single day? And is there a scientific scale on which it can be measured?

"Friends dinnae make yeh cry, Rogue."

"He didn't make me cry. Ah cried because Ah made a fool of myself."

"That's what they want yeh tae believe. That it's all yeh own fault."

Who's "they" and do ya get a discount if ya buy in bulk? Time for a reality check, girl.

"Kid, I've never set eyes on ya in my life until a couple of minutes ago so what part of I ain't beaten up on Rogue are you having difficulty coming to grips with here?"

She's alone. She's terrified. She's in danger of losing control. If she does things are going to get nasty real fast. And I'm gonna let them.

Rahne grimaces and displays some very long canine teeth she didn't have a few moments ago and her eyes are definitely more tawny amber than green. Wolfing out by inches ain't a good sign and neither is her posture. Beneath her sweatshirt the muscles in her shoulders and arms bunch prominently and she looks more like a steroid freak than a thirteen year old kid. The bitter odour of adrenalin infiltrates the air.

Throwing down with a defensively aggressive teenage werewolf ain't gonna happen. I suspect it might be suicidal to get Moira kick-ass mad with me if I rumble with Rahne. Walk away, a nagging voice whispers in my head. This ain't your problem so grab Rogue and back the fuck off, just get up and leave the room and let her seethe herself into a hissy fit and take her mad out on the furniture. Yeah, like that's gonna happen. Gut instinct tells me backing down is not the answer. The cub is challenging the alpha male and needs a lesson in hierarchical etiquette. I go with instinct. With deliberate slowness I hand my cue to Rogue.

"Take this and yerself and wait over there." I nod towards a corner of the room furthest from Rahne.

"W...what are you going to do?"

"Ain't gonna hurt the kid, now scoot."

Thankfully, Rogue obeys me without argument, putting the pool table and several pieces of furniture between her and me. Still moving with exaggerated slowness I lean against the pool table and cross my arms. I'm unarmed, I'm relaxed, I'm confident and I'm not taking her threat seriously. My eyes are locked with hers and I'm exuding a superiority I know she can't match. I ain't afraid of her, I've got way more mass and height than she has, I'm an unknown quantity and therefore, there's a lot of room for doubt inside that traumatised head of hers. I can sense the fury of the wolf battling its way to the surface in rapidly progressing stages – she's sprouting reddish fur and her skull is morphing, becoming more flattened, her face elongating into a muzzle.

"Does it usually take ya this long to put yer Ms Claws 'n' Paws face on? Should I make an appointment and come back later?"

The provocation is intentional. I want her coming at me raging mad, too consumed by anger to think straight. It'll make it easier on both of us if she blows her top and loses control. Hopefully, once I've calmed her down and her fit of feral rage has subsided, she'll feel better afterwards, easy to reason with. Right now, though, it's too fucking harrowing to see how much like me she really is.

Her transition from girl to wolf is lightning fast yet incomplete. Her feet and legs are still human, probably because of her jeans and shoes. Her arms and shoulders are more bulky because of the distorted musculature though still human but her fingers are now elongated, gnarled and tipped with glossy, black two inch claws. Everything else is pure wolf, including the jagged teeth and a long, slathering tongue. And yes, she got the tail but it ain't curved between her legs.

Her reflexes are mighty fucking fast, faster than any cage bait I've come across. Fortunately, speed cannot compensate for the advantages of experience and superior reach. Rahne charges, using her outstretched hands as her primary method of attack, leaving herself wide open. She attempts to slash my throat but with little effort I seize her wrists and haul her arms over her head. This brings her teeth into play and she tries to use her momentum to thrust her muzzle into my face and deliver a bite. She's struggling hard and one of her knees connects painfully with my groin. Red spots of agony waver across my vision and I resist the urge to drop to the ground and go foetal.

"Logan, oh God, are you okay?" Rogue must've seen my grimace of pain.

"Nothing that won't heal," I wheeze, "Just stay back and this'll be over in a few moments."

Pressing both of her wrists into my left hand I seize her by the scruff of the neck with my free hand and swing her off her feet. With the claws immobilised and her jaws no longer a threat, I shake her hard. Unable to get purchase on the ground her struggles become ineffective but it don't stop her trying. The noises issuing from her throat definitely ain't human but I understand them well enough. After all, I'm fucking fluent in feral, ain't I?

"I know this is clichéd but this is hurting me more than it's hurting you." Damn fucking right. My nuts feel like they've been crushed in a vice.

Her howls are a bit more coherent now. "Put me down yeh bastard or I'll tear yeh nadgers off."

Give ya the chance to finish the job? Not fucking likely, missy.

The racket has attracted unwanted attention.

_Logan, is everything all right?_

Not now Charlie. The situation is a bit delicate. To say nothing of the fact my nuts are throbbing so hard they feel the size of footballs.

"I think ya need ta cool off, kid," I inform her, vengeance for the knee job definitely on my mind.

"Get yeh bloody hands off me, yeh Sassenach git!"

"I ain't English, I'm Canadian."

"Like there's a difference?"

Her shrieking has become so high pitched it's almost painful. Taking care to keep as much space between my aching, vulnerable soft bits and the writhing, screaming creature in my grip, I head towards the hall. I'm in time to see Xavier gliding out of his study, his face a grim mask of anxiety.

"I trust there is a reasonable explanation for this outrageous conduct, Logan."

"You betcha, Charlie but I'm a little busy right now."

Rogue has followed me into the hall. She's torn between feeling unhappy about Rahne's treatment and anger at Rahne's extreme behaviour. I feel her hesitate when she spots Xavier.

"Get the front door, kid," I grunt as Rahne's struggling becomes more frantic.

"What yeh sitting there like that for. Call yersel' a headmaster, yeh slap-headed old coot? Just wait 'til I tell Moira about this."

"Ignore her, Charlie. Kid's not herself right now."

"So I see," Xavier replies. "Is this another one of your unconventional short, sharp shock situations?"

"Uh, huh," I mutter as I haul myself and the incensed werewolf through the cavernous front door and into the sunshine.

"Where are you taking her?" Rogue demands as our rapid progress is marked by the crunching of gravel beneath our feet.

"Not far."

I hang a right around the south wing of the mansion and across an immaculate lawn.

"You're gonnae regret this, both o' yehs."

"Ain't gonna happen ya little whelp."

"We're heading for the rose garden. Oh, Logan you're not going to…"

"Shut yer yap, kid or you'll spoil the surprise."

Moments we reach an eight foot high stone wall with a wrought iron gate recessed into it. Rahne is now hissing and spitting like a cougar, lashing her tail like crazy and waggling he feet. My arms are aching with their burden but I ain't gonna let her go just yet.

"Open the gate will ya Rogue."

She complies and I step through. Rahne's howls increase to an ear piercing crescendo as she claps her eyes on her nemesis.

"Don't yeh dare, yeh stinking bastard. Don't yeh fooking dare!"

"Yer language is atrocious, kid. Ya really need to wash yer mouth out."

Stifling a laugh I heave her over the lip of a large, ornamental fountain and let go. She flies gracelessly through the air, arms and legs flailing uselessly and lands with a tremendous splash. The water's only three feet deep. She won't drown but she's gonna get very, very wet.

Spluttering with rage, Rahne rises from the water like an avenging Titan, eye's glowing murderously yellow, fur plastered to her skin and slick as rust coloured algae, her clothing sodden. She wades purposefully towards me, jaws snapping menacingly, claws reaching out.

She's climbing out now, her intent to do damage all too transparent.

"Still hot under the collar, huh?"

As she hauls herself out I seize her by the shoulders and throw her back in. This times she lands ass first in the water, at the foot of the off centre bronze hippocampus gushing copious amounts of water into the air from its mouth.

She rises again. Muzzle creasing into intimidating wrinkles, her teeth bared in threat, Rahne lets loose a deep and very guttural growl. She looks preposterous with her erect wolf ears drooping beneath the force of the cascading water. She starts forward but this time her approach is more cautious. She ain't learned her lesson yet.

Using my arms to brace myself on the fountain's parapet I lean towards her, my lips twisted into a ferocious snarl, baring my own teeth. They ain't as spectacular as hers but that ain't the point. It's all down to attitude and body language. To reason with Rahne I gotta connect with the wolf. The growl rumbling from my throat is über feral, cold as a penguin's ass, resonating ominously off the stone walls and crammed with lethal promise. My stare is intense, boring into her eyes with a relentlessness that makes her shy away. It carries the full force of my superior, unbreakable willpower.

I'm bigger'n nastier than you. I can trample you into the dust and not even notice. Know your place errant cub or earn my wrath. Back off now.

Rogue looks at me askance, one delicate eyebrow forming a perplexed arch.

"Logan, what are you doing?" Rogue's voice has shot up at least one octave.

I ignore her, concentrating my full attention on Rahne.

"This isn't funny," Rogue continues fretfully.

No it ain't. Rahne has a problem with the male of the species. That means fifty percent of the school's population is at risk of her wolfing out on them if they do or say something to inadvertently trigger her rage.

Rahne holds my stare defiantly for a few seconds before her gaze falters and she seems to shrink in on herself, turning her head away, her muzzle dropping into a submissive bow, her ears flat against her skull. It's over. Suddenly the wolf is gone, leaving in its place a shivering, bedraggled, sorrowful little girl who's breathing is racked by sobs.

"You okay?" I ask, my voice still hoarse from the growling.

Looking at me, she nods, trying to wipe the cascading water from her eyes. Reaching my hand out I give her a reassuring smile. "I'm not gonna hurt ya, darlin'. C'mon, let's go inside and get ya cleaned up."

I don't really expect her to take my hand but to my surprise, she does and I help her onto dry land.

"It's all right, Rahne, really it is," Rogue sooths, relief pouring from her. Rahne reaches towards Rogue, trying to grasp her hand but Rogue whips her hands behind her back. Rahne hangs her head, crestfallen.

"Yeh don't want tae be my friend anymore. I dinnae blame yeh."

Rogue gives the smaller girl a winning smile. "Course, Ah'm your friend, Rahne but Ah left my gloves in the games room. My skin is poison, remember. Ah don't wanna hurt you."

Rahne manages a wan smile. "I'm sorry. When I feel frightened the wolf is frightened too and begins to do things that scare me. I can't stop it. That's why Moira brought me here."

"No one's gonna hurt ya while you're with us, darlin'." I promise her. "And I'll, uh spiflicate anyone who tries."

Rahne looks at me uncertainly.

"He means it too," Rogue adds, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "He's probably the king of spliflication."

"We still got a coupla hours to spare. You like pool?" I ask Rahne.

She looks over her shoulder at the fountain, scrunges her face up and shakes her head vehemently. Water drop fly everywhere, making strands of her short hair stand out in erratic spikes.

"I mean the dry kind you play indoors."

Rahne shrugs. "I dinnae ken the game."

"Wanna learn?"

"Maybe."

"Good enough."

We start back towards the mansion, Rahne dripping water, her shoes squelching with every step. She and Rogue chat animatedly but I don't join in other than to emit an occasional grunt of agreement. The kid has a serious problem, an uncontrollable feral rage that is capable of inflicting real injury. She needs help from someone who understands what she's going through. Someone with intimate knowledge of corralling the inner beast. Without guidance Rahne will ultimately lose the struggle against her feral nature because she has neither the maturity nor the strength of character to contain and control it. Potentially, she's another Sabretooth waiting to happen.

She ain't my kid or my responsibility. I ain't no teacher. I can't even help myself so how the fuck can I help her? Rahne's got Charlie, Maggie and Moira batting on her team and that's a fucking world class line-up. She don't need a wildcard screw up like me striking out at a crucial moment. I should get out while I still can. After all, isn't running is what I do best?

**Love it or loathe it, please leave a review. Believe it or not, what you think really does matter to me. :0)**


	9. Dirty Dancing

**Disclaimer: **Blah blah blah. No profit. Blah blah. Cyclops ain't mine. Blah blah. Wolvie's not mine either (pity). Blah blah. Would like him to be. Blah blah…etc., and so forth and all that guff. I can, and do, lay claim to Jessica, Sal, Hitch, Soho and the multitude of extremely piddled off extras populating this scene.

Apologies for this chapter being later than anticipated. Blame it on my Kentucky Fried, Motherboarding Processor and the fact that one tiny little flashback paragraph got stretched to almost (but not quite) 8000 words.

This time I've done a hatchet job on a General sahf London accent (please note this is not an attempt at anything vaguely Cockney, just your basic working class or blue collar Londoner).

**Mythbuster. **No, we Brits do not drink warm beer. We prefer it cold just like everyone else. And just in case anyone wants to know, there is such a beer as A Over T. :0)

Thanks to **Dee** (MidLifeCrisis), **joegood2003**, **Dr. Nat,** **dayrunner 145**, **Sonder**, **Joruk,** **Taluliaka**, **chris-warren876**, **firefly750**, **Skye** and **Magdalena** for their encouraging reviews.

**Chapter 9: Dirty Dancing**

Oil, gasoline, transmission fluid, plastic, rubber, metal and grease. The basic ingredients of a typical garage and workshop fug is universal. What makes every mix unique is the scent of the people hanging out there. Percolating through this particular miasma is the dual essence of alpha-jerk and antiseptic. Summers is working late. I can't see him but I can hear him tinkering with his bike in one of the service bays. There are worse ways to pass the time. My attention's fixed on finding more stimulating ones.

Moving swiftly but quietly, I head for the small office where the service records and ignition keys are kept. No point driving anything flashy where I'm going so I snag the keys for one of the Jeeps. As I weave my way through the motor pool to my vehicle Summers chooses that moment to add material substance to his pervading scent. He's wearing a grubby boiler suit that reeks of grease and dirty engine oil. The filthy rag he's using to wipe his hands clean of grease ain't up to the job and only succeeds in smearing the stuff to a dull, even sheen instead. Ruby quartz goggles have replaced his visor.

"Going somewhere?" It's the same scathing tone he'd use on a kid caught trying to skip class. Obviously he reserves it for Dumb Pride activists too.

"Nah, I've come here to practice my _pas de deux_. What else would I do with a fucking ignition key in a garage full of cars?"

Summers stuffs the rag into a hip pocket and briefly turns away, grimacing his displeasure. Then, expression carefully composed, he slowly enunciates his next question as if I'm simple or hard of hearing.

"What is your problem, Logan?"

Ain't it obvious?

"I got some numbnuts dickweed standing between me and my next cold beer." What is it about this guy that brings out the cynical bastard in me?

"That's real cute. How did you get to become such an obnoxious asshole?"

Summers really needs to get this irony thing nailed down. I shrug. "Osmosis?"

His laugh is short, humourless and incredulous. "Like you actually know what that means?"

"You'd be surprised at what I know," I reply dismissively. "What's this fucking inquisition shit anyway? If there's a point to this conversation tell me now or I'm outta here."

Here comes the lecture. "Treating the faculty like so much crap is bad enough but children...? You threw Rahne MacTaggert into the fountain. And then you frightened the life out of her by baring your teeth and growling at her like some wild animal."

Wonder which part of 'Rahne MacTaggert is an out of control mutant werewolf' shit for brains is having difficulty with? Boy Scout delivers his diatribe with precise, clipped articulation, his holier than thou fury held in check by his iron self control. Spoken like a true school teacher. Too bad for him I ain't a fucking kid.

"Yeah, so what?" I've already successfully defended my actions to both Xavier and Moira. Ain't about to explain myself again.

"Behaviour of this sort is totally unacceptable."

"Fine. Next time the half-pint gets pissed off and wolfs out I'm more'n happy to let her play monster mash with _your_ balls. Anything else?"

He stares at me as if taking my measure for the first time. Finally he reaches a decision. "Yes, there is. Wait here."

Summers stalks off and disappears into the office. I can hear him opening a draw and rummaging through it. He emerges with a cell phone in his greasy hand.

"Take this. The team's officially on stand-by and you need to be contactable if anything goes down."

Although I've attended training sessions this is the first time Summers has ever verbally acknowledged I'm a member of the team. It's probably the closest thing to an apology I'm likely to receive. Hope he don't think I'm gonna go all misty eyed over it.

"Uh, thanks." I take the phone and flip it open. Never owned one of these things. Hell, I've never had anyone to call before. The keypad is similar to that of Rogue's cell so I have some idea how the thing works. I press a few buttons randomly because I know it's gonna annoy the crap outta him.

"Has anyone ever told you that the reason people believe you're such an unmitigated dumb-ass is because you act the part to perfection?"

Trying hard not to crack my face here. It's so fucking easy baiting One-eye it ain't hardly even a sport. The guy seriously needs to loosen up before he requires major surgery to unclench.

"No one who survived the encounter," I reply, holding the cell to my ear. No dial tone. How can it be a real phone with no dial tone?

Summers shakes his head as if resigning himself to my intransigence. "There's a meeting in the strategy room at oh eight thirty tomorrow. Don't be late."

Wow, do I get to see Summers play with that amazing holo-map again? Can hardly wait. "I won't. You still got a headache?"

"What's it to you?"

"Some old fashioned anaesthesia will do wonders for it. Ya might even get lucky. Wanna join me?"

Priceless! Summers couldn't look more stunned if I'd just up and French kissed him. Is this a milestone Kodak moment or what?

Taking the rag out of his pocket he begins to smear the grease more diligently, his brow creased into a frown of concentration. I don't believe it. One-eye is actually considering the invitation.

Finally, "I appreciate the offer but I don't drink alcohol and I'm not ready…really in the mood for…uh company right now. And I'd like to get the bike finished tonight. Thanks anyway."

"Then you deserve the pain."

"You're all heart. Now get the fuck out of here."

No argument from me.

-o0o-

The Auger Inn is a rowdy cesspit where the crap drifts about on two legs. Dealers, fences, pimps, it's got 'em all and they're the nice guys. Then there's the more hardcore clientele, bikers, hookers, hustlers, hard drinkers, headbangers; my kind of scum. Live hard, play harder. These guys generally have a low expectation of life but understand how to have a good time. Like I said, my kind of scum.

Breath laden cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a greasy blue aerosol and clings to clothing, hair and skin with the tenacity of a pitbull. In dead zones it forms layered wreaths that swirl like dust devils when caught in the wake of a passing body. Sal really oughta invest in a new extraction system or at least open a fucking window. Never before have I met a guy so reluctant to allow fresh air to contaminate the ambience of a shit hole. Here the sour stink of sweat, vomit, stale beer, emotional excretions, neglected restrooms and unwashed feet almost has its own pseudo-entity. I swear that one of these days it'll take solid form and shake me by the hand when I walk through the door.

Why do I come here and torture my acute senses? Because Sal keeps the best and strongest craft beers for miles around and for that I can breathe through my mouth or suck in air through a stogie for a few hours.

The place don't really get buzzing until after ten but it's lively tonight 'coz it's Saturday. I've played a handful of friendly pool games and ain't had to buy a beer yet. That's gonna change real soon 'coz the new waitress has been giving me the surreptitious eye since I walked in the joint. She's a real babe, late twenties at a guess, with long hair the colour of wild honey, deep blue eyes and a figure that would get Hugh Hefner drooling into his Evian. Wonder what her story is? If she's working her way through college or trying to support kids why chose a downmarket rat hole like this? With looks like hers she could be raking it in as a club hostess or working in one of those classier wine bars. Maybe she just likes slumming. Ain't here for the company though 'coz she's given at least a dozen horny guys the arctic fuck off in the last half hour. Her eyes are alive, not hooker hard and calculating. Seems clear to me she's here to sling booze, earn a little scratch and go home. She's an enigma. Nice women don't work in dives like this. Do they?

And I ain't in the market for a nice woman right now, just a good one.

"Hey handsome, wanna buy me a drink?"

Looking over my shoulder my gaze falls on a gaunt, lank haired apparition. Never seen her before tonight but I know she didn't arrive alone. The hollow eyed creature looks at me hopefully, her dry lipped smile a crooked razor slash linking her sallow, sunken cheeks. She stinks of sweat, disease, crack and desperation. It's hard to tell but she's young, younger than the honey behind the bar. Before the drugs ravaged her body she might even have been pretty.

"If I do will ya promise to piss off and leave me alone?"

Sounds harsh, but her crackhead boyfriend has disappeared from view, probably lurking in the car park to roll the idiot she drags outside on an offer to go bash the bricks. Besides, screwing that would be like screwing the living dead and I'm never gonna be desperate enough to find her appealing.

"Fuck you, asshole."

"Not in this lifetime, skank."

A couple nursing beers at a nearby table laugh and I glare at them. They lose interest in me and pay closer attention to their drinks. The crackhead broad beats a retreat but doesn't exactly storm away, more scuds with intent in the direction of a drunk biker across the room. Not anyone I know so he's on his own. Besides, he looks like he can handle himself.

"What a waste."

A guy clutching a shot glass half full of liquor in one hand and a cue in the other is heading my way. His tone is friendly conversational but I don't know him from Adam.

"'Scuse me?"

"That kid. Had her life ruined just so some scumbag drug lord can buy his whore a new dress."

This guy a social worker or what? "I didn't twist her arm so why should I give a fuck?"

He ain't as tall as me, maybe five eleven. I give his age at mid to late thirties. African American with skin tone several shades darker than 'Ro's. Looks like his nose has been mashed good and fairly recently too. Beneath the jeans, Tee and leather jacket he's got the body and bearing of a jarhead but it's the regulation haircut that gives him away. I can't smell gun oil, cordite, base scent or anything else for that matter 'coz the aftershave he's wearing is so strong it hits me like a corrosive fucking shock wave. When the full force of it's taint infiltrates my nose it goes exothermic on my membranes and my eyes begin to water. The stink adheres to his clothes and seems to permeate his skin but has difficulty escaping his personal gravity well which is weird. Maybe the worst of it has already evaporated. Up close whatever it is, it's sickening. My healing factor compensates; barely.

"Jeezus, what the fuck did ya splash on? CS gas?" So what if the guy gets all offended and punchy. I ain't half as offensive as his aftershave so I don't give a shit.

GI Joe looks startled. "Something my girlfriend bought me for Christmas. Is it really that bad?"

"Ya can't smell it?" Christ, what did he do to piss her off, crush a litter of kittens?

He taps the side of his nose. "I walked into a Republican Guard gun butt in Kirkuk. Can't smell much. Can't taste much either."

"Tough call," I choke, "You a marine?" He damn well looks like one.

"Was. Medical discharge ten months ago. Wanna game? Beers on the side?"

"Sure, if ya can manage to stay downwind of me." Suddenly, the Auger fug don't smell so bad anymore.

The guy laughs. "Name's Steve Hitchin but people call me Hitch."

"Logan," I grunt.

"That your first or last name?"

"Yeah."

"Right." He grins knowingly. "Rack 'em, up, Logan and let's play us some pool."

Hitch proves to be a formidable opponent and wins the first game. Ain't unhappy 'bout that 'coz now I can check out the classy chassis behind the bar.

"What's yer poison?" I enquire, my gaze straying towards the bar.

"They have Molson?"

"Yeah. Canadian or Export?"

"Canadian. Can't really taste it but I'll get more buzz for your bucks." Hitch laughs at his own joke.

Can do better'n that. "You want a beer with more buzz then go for Ass Over Tit. It's an acquired taste but that ain't gonna bother ya none."

Arching an eyebrow he asks, "Ass Over Tit? Who the hell calls a beer that?"

"It's a British export I've developed a liking for. Twice as much alcohol content as Molson's so it ain't called Ass Over Tit for nothing." The extra strong European craft brews Sal keeps in his cellar are what pull the customers in, me included.

Hitch pulls a face. "Isn't British beer served warm?"

"Not since they discovered refrigeration."

"Then educate me."

I muscle my way to the new girl's end of the bar. Unsurprisingly, she's popular with the patrons so I have to wait my turn. It's almost ten and the bar's beginning to fill up. My ears ring as a cymbal crashes to the floor close by. There's some inventive cursing for accompaniment. The band's arrived and they're struggling to set up their instruments on the makeshift stage. Half of them are drunk and the rest are high as kites on meth. Since they're an AC/DC tribute band guess no one's gonna notice much difference when they start playing.

Eventually, it's my turn to be served and Sal's star attraction smiles at me expectantly. In the scheme of things all women have the same basic physical attributes, it's the proportion that varies wildly. And does this broad have proportions. The way she fills her jeans and her skimpy, lavender blue tank top is nothing short of spectacular. Great body tone too. She works hard at keeping herself fit. If she does it for effect then she's mining a rich seam 'coz the lust oozing from the guys ogling her is so thick it's almost tangible.

"What's your pleasure, hon?" Her voice is husky and as sensuous as her lips.

Now there's a loaded question. Ya really want an answer to that, honey? The way those luscious pink lips are curved into a smile makes me want to explore them with my own. It's a struggle dragging my gaze away but when I do I find I'm drowning in her come get me eyes. Her scent, while not exactly screaming _take me now_, definitely carries an aroma of aroused interest. I think she likes me.

Can't remember ever being so completely smitten by a piece of skirt; Gotta get a grip. "Coupla AOTs, darlin'," I reply casually.

She turns away, and snags a couple of bottles from a low shelf. A chorus of appreciative cat-calls and wolf whistles sets up and I almost join in myself. That gal has a damn fine ass and suddenly I'm imagining what that firm flesh would feel like in my hands. A drunken bastard who looks like a walrus and smells like a camel's butt, mouths off and shatters my line of thought. I know he's been hitting on her for a while and she keeps brushing him off. Some dickwads are too fucking stupid to take no for an answer.

"Hey babe, how come this faggot rates a 'hon' and I don't?"

She straightens up, a bottle in each hand. Her blue eyes are chips of sapphire ice and glitter dangerously. I can feel her anger but she ain't cowed by any of these cocksuckers.

"Because you don't rate at all, bozo."

His buddies laugh, enjoying the floor show at his expense.

"Fuck'n bitch," he slurs.

"Maybe, but I'm not _your_ bitch, asshole."

She's got some cojones standing up to him like that but she could be banking a whole lot of trouble for herself later on.

"Ain't a good idea to encourage scum like that darlin'," I warn her quietly. "Nice girl like you can find yerself in deep water real quick."

"Well this girl knows how to look out for herself but thanks for the advice."

I believe her. The girl's confident and as cool as ice. It ain't gonna stop her getting hurt though.

Placing a couple of bottles on the counter she says, "That's ten fifty, hon." I pay her.

"Things get outta hand I'm just over there 'kay?" I nod towards the pool table area.

"Sure." She makes to turn away and then changes her mind. Maybe it's because I'm the only guy she's served that hasn't hit on her. Or maybe because she sees something she likes. "Look, fella, I've got a break coming up soon. I don't fancy keeping company with Sal's roaches or these creeps. Mind if I join you, maybe shoot some pool?"

Do I mind the company of a drop dead gorgeous hottie? Easy tiger, don't scare her off with some lame pick up line. She obviously has zero tolerance for assholes. Just play it cool. "Not at all, darlin'. You come on over in yer own sweet time."

"Thanks. And it's Jessica."

I got her name and the promise of her company without asking. Things are definitely looking good. "Logan," I reciprocate with a smile.

"Hey, lover," a familiar voice spits out. "Why bother with the queen heifer when there's a real woman right here." The crackhead waif insinuates herself into the redneck's personal space and glares at me defiantly, her slash of a smile looking like someone's split her face with an axe. "I don't got no problem sorting the real men from the limp dick bitches."

"'Zat right," Camel-butt leers, his bloodshot eyes bulging from his flabby flesh like diseased oysters. C'm 'ere girl and let's test the goods."

Guess her beta target didn't play out the way she'd hoped. Guy must be smarter than he looked. Like a fly in a field of cow chips she's selected another toothsome morsel and this one ain't too fussy. Hope the bastard's got a thick skull 'coz he's gonna need it if he falls for the line she's feeding him. By the way he's now hungrily groping her breasts and slobbering her ear with his tongue, the moron's already taken the bait hook, line and sinker. I leave him to his fate. Call it karma for the crap he's dished out to Jessica.

"Here ya go." I hand Hitch a bottle.

"Thanks." He takes a slug, smacks his lips and a happy smile cracks his face. "Hey, I can actually taste it, sort of. Must get me a crate or ten of this stuff."

We're halfway through the next game when Jessica elbows a path towards us. She's carrying three bottles, two AOTs and what looks like a Grolsch. This stuff don't come cheap and Sal don't exactly overpay his staff.

"Ya shouldn't have…" I begin.

"On the house. What Sal doesn't see he isn't gonna weep over."

"Thanks," I say, never one to turn down a freebie.

"Who's your friend, Logan?"

Hitch answers for himself. "Steve Hitchin. Friends call me Hitch but you can just call me."

Jessica's perfect lips quirk into a smile. "I'll take that as a compliment rather than a proposition, okay?"

They both laugh. I finish the last of my beer and wonder if I can punch Hitch's lights out without anyone noticing.

Jessica lines up the fresh beers along the edge of the pool table. Hitch reaches over, brushing her with his arm, and nabs one. Such close proximity causes Jessica to wrinkle her nose and grimace her revulsion.

"Christ, is that cat's piss I can smell?" Jessica looks around for the source of the stink.

Hitch looks sheepishly at her. "Sorry, it's my aftershave. Guess my sense of smell is deader than I thought."

"Gift from his girlfriend," I add meaningfully. Never hurts to neutralise any opposition does it?

"She must really hate you," Jessica commiserates.

Hitch grins. "Ya think?"

The rock band's leader grabs the mic and slurs something intelligible into it. There's the ubiquitous one, two three countdown and then the first chords are struck. The boom boxes have gotta be amped to the max and it feels like I'm ringside to a nuclear detonation. The entire building resonates like a bell and I swear I can feel my organs begin to liquefy under the sonic assault. Self preservation and damage limitation clear a blast radius of several feet around the stage. The noise is pure torture and people are cursing and clamping hands over their ears. I'm one of 'em. Sal shoots out from his office mouthing obscenities that even he can't possibly hear and motions them to crank it down. They oblige and the decibel level drops from fucking excruciating to vaguely painful.

Conversation's still for shit though.

"Fuck, we could've used these pussies in Iraq," Hitch yells with feeling.

"Iraq ain't far enough away for 'em," I growl.

Jessica leans in to me and half shouts, "My break will be over soon. Want to dance?"

Not particularly but since it's you that's doing the asking, darlin'. I nod and rest my pool cue against the table.

Finish this game afterwards, 'kay?"

Hitch nods, fixing me with a sly _you lucky bastard_ smirk. I can feel his hot stare burning into my back as I escort the curvaceous Jessica onto the impromptu dance floor, basically an amorphous space hastily cleared of tables. Half the customers, some drunk, most on their way to that happy state, take to the floor and begin to gyrate and grind to the furious beat. Jessica is heading for the centre of the pulsating mass of sweaty humanity but I hold her back, preferring the periphery.

She smiles and begins to sway, the undulations of her hips and shoulders accentuating her perfect curves. Jeezus fucking Christ! The way this girl moves is amazing. Sinuous, sexy, seductive, precisely how I imagine she'd writhe if she were under me. She turns her head to one side, eyes closed and I catch glimpses of the creamy arch of her neck through her hair. Still swaying sensuously she loosely crosses her arms as if hugging herself, hands framing her exposed navel. Her scent, now heavy with the musk of passion, drives me wild. I spin her around so she's facing away from me and fold my arms around her, holding her as close as a second skin, burying my face in her neck and breathing in her fragrance. Her ass brushes my groin and I feel a shiver run through her as she discovers she ain't the only one feeling hot. Leaning her head on my shoulder she looks up at me, her eyes dark and wanton.

"Wanna get outta here?" My voice is husky with need. Ain't been with a woman since before Jeannie died. Ain't really wanted to until I saw Jessica. Casual sex, while it scratches an itch, is so fucking impersonal and meaningless. Jeannie showed me there's more to life than applied biology, that there's a world of difference between fucking a woman and making love to her. There's something special about Jessica, something elusive and indefinable. She deserves better than to be used as a one night stand. I want to make love to the beautiful creature in my arms. And not just tonight.

It ain't simple lust I'm feeling. Her pheromones are intoxicating, playing havoc with my libido but that could be down to my grief imposed celibacy. She's a complete stranger yet I want to be with her so much I ache. I don't understand this compulsion, hell, she ain't even a mutant. I'm primed to run blindfolded into unexplored territory and it's scaring the bejesus outta me.

She twists her body around and suddenly I'm gazing into her upturned face. "I've got to finish my shift first. Sal won't pay me if I don't."

"No worries, darlin'." I ain't gonna insult her by offering her cash. "We can find somewhere to eat if ya like."

"That would be nice." She smiles showing perfect white teeth. "I finish at midnight."

Out of the corner of my eye I see the mass of dancers parting like the Red Sea as a bare-armed foursome of badasses, clad in leather, chains and denim, force their way through, making a beeline in my direction. They're bikers but not local ones. According to the colours on their leather vests these creeps hail all the way from Atlantic City. Musta took a wrong turning or something.

"The lady's mine, meathead. Get yer fuckin' paws off of her."

Mister convivial is a big fucker with a depressingly unoriginal assortment of 'mean bastard' tattoos down his arms, the body of an overweight Buddha, a beard like a porcupine's ass and a shaved head pitted with scars. While some of his bulk is lard there's also a lot of muscle and he parades it like a playground bully. His three buddies are almost as big, just as tattooed and twice as ugly and that, in itself, is saying something because their buddy is one ugly, motherfucking scumbag.. They're all taller and wider than me, their faces set into menacing don't fuck with me glowers, their hands scrunched into meaty fists. I could take the fucking lot of 'em down without breaking into a sweat.

I look the leader of the pack up and down, taking my time and making certain he knows I ain't in awe and he sure as hell don't scare me. His swaggering bravado is genuine cock o' the walk. He's got his cheerleaders, the Fugly Sisters, and there's just one of me so he's gushing confidence by the barrel. None of us are fixing to back off so there's only one way this encounter's gonna end. I put myself between Jessica and harm's way.

"This piece of scum-sucking shit got any claim on ya, darlin'?" I enquire, not taking my eyes off the dickheads confronting me.

"Nuh uh!" Jessica retorts as she swamps our immediate area with the scent of disgust. "Never laid eyes on the lardass scuzzball in my life."

I smile humourlessly at the lardass scuzzball. "Lady says yer a liar, bub."

The dancers and drinkers closest to our little group have grown still and quiet and I can smell the heat of anticipation hanging heavy in the smoky air. News of an impending fight slowly spreads through the crowd like a silent Mexican wave as heads slowly turn towards the impromptu entertainment.

"Then I guess I'd better teach her a lesson," Scuzzy grates as his lips writhe into and unholy grin that reveals yellow, decayed stumps. His halitosis is nothing short of biological warfare.

"Fuck yeah, Jerry," one of the fugly sisters rumbles mockingly. "Guess we're all gonna enjoy teaching her that lesson." He shucks his crotch with his hand to emphasise his intention. This fucker is gonna be carried out on a stretcher.

"Right after I've torn his fuckin' head clean off," Jerry leers nastily.

Like that's gonna happen.

As Scuzzbucket speaks one of his sausage sized fingers begins to jab out every syllable on my chest like it was Morse code. Big mistake. My mocking aggression erupts into violence and I seize his offending limb, squeezing with brutal force until I feel and hear bones snap.

Scuzzball howls in agony and falls to his knees, tears forming little beads of water that trickle down his face and festoon his beard, glistening like dew.

"My hand! Ya broke my fuckin' hand!"

"Boo fucking hoo! Now beat feet, shitwit, while ya still got the use of yer legs." Can't say I didn't warn him.

Several things happen at once. Scuzzball's shriek alerts more of his buddies and they start pushing their way through the crowd. A second group gathered at the opposite end of the bar also head resolutely in this direction, some of the local boys by the smell of 'em. The crowd takes a collective deep breath and draws back, fearful of being sucked into the impending violence. The atmosphere becomes charged with expectancy and a growing sense of bloodlust that almost crackles like electricity. The whole room begins to reek like a cage fight venue. I can smell Hitch's overwhelming aftershave growing in intensity behind me. The fuglies fan out, giving themselves room to swing at me from several sides simultaneously, striking simian style brawl postures. Tension mounts and my nose is assaulted by a plethora of hormonal and emotional emissions, both from the crowd, the fuglies and Jessica.

Completely oblivious of the fact they've lost the attention of the audience, the band plays on.

"You'll be safer across the bar, sweetheart," I hear Hitch whisper.

"I can take care of myself," Jessica hisses back.

Ain't got time for this. Without taking my eyes off the opposition I tell Jessica to clear the area. "Do what he says, darlin'. I don't want ya getting hurt."

"No, really, I can take care of myself," she insists, her tone brittle with exasperation. I don't smell any fear drifting off her, just determination.

Crotch-grabber pulls a knife from a sheath concealed beneath his vest. As knives go it's fucking impressive, the forged equivalent of going loaded for bear. Pity he don't know how to hold it properly. I refrain from unsheathing my claws because this is a place I wanna come back to.

"Go with the fagola, honey," he leers, "He can keep ya cosy an' safe while I carve his fuckbuddy's liver into steaks and shove 'em up his ass." Fugly settles his bulk into a loose fighting stance, weaving the knife slowly back and forth, his face a mask of pure malice.

"Like fuck you will," Jessica snarls and launches a vicious snap kick. It connects with a bone jarring crunch, the knife arcs out of fugly's hand and skitters across the floor to be lost in the crowd.

"Fuck!"

Fugly grasps his wrist. Ain't broke but it's gotta hurt. Finding himself disarmed and in sudden pain, he backs off uncertainly, maybe figuring that three against two ain't such good odds as three against one. Jessica's fast, she's accurate and she don't take shit. Apparently shimmying like a sex goddess ain't the only moves this kid's got. I think I'm in love.

"Where d'ya learn that?" I ask out of the corner of my mouth.

"US Naval academy," she replies. Great. A jarhead and now a sailor? Looks like the assholes ain't the only convention in town.

"I've got your back," Hitch mutters into my right ear. What's this? Beer gratitude? Or is the asshole out to impress the company I'm keeping? He's on a loser with the aftershave.

"Watch yer own," I tell him.

"These twats threatened to do yer bird, did they?"

Speaking of assholes, this is Soho, leader of some of the local boys, all outlaws. He ain't local though, he's a Brit, taking his handle from the London borough he claims to have been born in. His yobbish accent is good but not good enough to hide the faint cadence of a cultured upbringing. One thing in his favour - he don't like motherfuckers who beat up on women.

"I am not anyone's damn _bird_!" Jessica insists, clearly troubled by the title. I can't help admire the fact she's more concerned about being called a bird than the prospect of getting her ass kicked by a bunch of lunatic gangbangers.

"Bolshie bint ain't she?" Soho observes wryly. "Sure she's worth the agony, mate?"

"She can take care of herself." I can smell Jessicalicious's approval. I just know those lips of hers are smiling.

"Yeah, a regular Karate Kate. Smooth moves, babe." Soho winks his approval at her.

Taking up a position to Jessica's left Soho folds his arms across his chest. He's small, stocky and well muscled, a compact powerhouse who packs a heavy punch. I know because I've seen him in action. His head is shaven, save for the scalp lock and his neatly trimmed goatee is glossy and brown. Each ear has a number of pierced gold hoops and he looks like he's escaped from some fucking Arabian Nights tale.

"Wanna acquaint me wiv' ya noo pals, Loge?"

Since he's obviously declared himself to fight for Jessica's honour I might as well. "The pansy on the floor nursing the boo-boo is Princess Jerry and these are his fugly sisters." As I speak the fuglies' number swells to fourteen. The space afforded us by the non-combatants is beginning to look crowded.

"Dese wankers frettened to gang bang the nice lady." Soho sounds like he's delivering pleasantries because his voice is deceptively mild. "What d'you fink boys? Do we kick their fuckin' 'eads in or wot?"

The groundswell of opinion from Soho's boys who have formed a loose skirmish line behind Jessica, Hitch, Soho and me, is a unilateral, "Fuck yeah."

The everything goes to hell as the fuglies seize the initiative and rush us. I catch a brief glimpse of Jerry scrambling to safety before he gets trampled by his own mob. With that busted hand of his he ain't gonna be picking his nose for a while let alone picking fights.

Panic sets in and I can hear members of the crowd gasping and screaming as they try to escape the vicinity of the battle. I can hear wood splintering as tables and chairs are upended and kicked or shoved aside. I can't help thinking that table legs make handy weapons. If some of the bystanders decide to join in things could get mighty interesting.

A big bruiser sweeps towards me with the momentum of a Mack truck. Doesn't Jerry have any normal sized bitch-kickers? I sidestep him, using his momentum to sink my left fist into his gut. After that it's a cinch to snap my knee in his face as he doubles over in agony. Cartilage and bone give way as my knee mashes his nose across his right cheek. Grabbing his hair I yank him backwards. Blood spurts glossing the lower half of his face with mucous and gore. Pulling my punch I tap him once on the side of the head. His eyes roll so far back I can see only whites as he goes down hard. And that's just where he'll stay for the duration of the fight.

"KI-AI!" The karate scream is Jessica's. Free of an opponent, I snatch a look in her direction and watch her lithe form engage the enemy with the grace and ferocity of a she leopard. Unable to use her feet in close quarters hand to hand combat she's defending herself with a series of blocks and punches. One fucker gets too close and she thrusts her knee into his groin with such force he lets out a scream as piercing as a steam whistle. He goes down puking and clutching his balls. I can't help feeling sorry for him.

Hitch ain't doing quite so well. Someone's landed a nasty punch that's split his bottom lip and blood is pouring from his mouth, his nostrils and a cut beneath his left eye. He's still on his feet though, still battling; his fists beating heavily on cocksucker flesh. Guy's a real scrapper.

Soho's fists are like jackhammers and he holds his own until dogpiled by three fuglies. A couple of his buddies wade in and pull two of 'em off leaving Soho to lay into the remaining one, a smile of glee on his now battered and bloody face.

Someone must've noticed I'm missing a dance partner 'coz two fuglies come at me at once. One of the bastards has a broken bottle whose jagged edges are encrusted with fresh blood. Looks like he's already given some poor fucker a bar room facelift. Well this is where his adventures in reverse plastic surgery end. Having adamantium laced bones gives me an unseen advantage. When I hit something it has a tendency to stay hit. Chopping my hand down on bottle-guy's wrist is akin to being hit with a steel girder. Something's gotta give and I hear the satisfying crunch of bone and tendons snapping. Face livid with agony he screams loudly but not with the same intensity of Jessica's nutcracker victim. The bottle falls out of his now nerveless hand and smashes on the floor and he staggers away, definitely _hors de combat_. I let him go. Maybe he and Jerry can form a victim support group and pick each other's noses.

Dispatching the first half of the tag team takes seconds. Swivelling on the ball of my left foot I smash my elbow into the gut of his friend. As he folds I take his head in an arm lock before tapping him on the back of the head with my fist, not hard but enough to render the shitbag unconscious. That's when one of his opportunistic buddies blindsides me.

It's the fuckwit Jessica disarmed. Problem is, he's found his nasty pig sticker and now it's buried to the hilt in my side. Shock costs me dear as he twists the blade like he's winding a fucking clock, shredding my liver with intent to finish me off. My gut explodes into white hot agony that sears along my nerves and into my brain. To say that it hurts is a fucking understatement. While I've gone out of my way not to kill anyone this murdering fuckhole has no such compunction. The wound is a killer. Fortunately, I'm not that easy to kill.

Feral rage and pain floods my arteries with adrenalin. No matter how much I want to I know I can't kill the bastard so I focus on damaging him instead. Ignoring the pain that's burning through my gut like a furnace I launch a roundhouse kick that connects heavily with the fucker's jaw. His head snaps backward and he falls away, my flesh and viscera tearing as he keeps a strong grip on the knife. No longer impaled I seize the knife wielding hand and twist remorselessly, mangling the wrist bones and crushing fingers in my brutal and relentless grip. Something or someone slams into my back and it's my turn to stagger, I manage to grab the knife but have to let go of my opponent in order to keep my balance. Reflexively I clutch at my wound, nostrils flaring with the cloying metallic scent of my own blood, feeling its slick warmth trickling down my belly, soaking through my shirt and spilling across my hand. Damn!

"You're dead fucking meat you fucking asshole," Fugly says panting hard, his voice guttural with exertion and pain. He's too fucking stupid and ornery to be afraid. It's gonna cost him a whole world of hurt.

Much as I want to kill this shit sucking buttwad I know I'll have difficulty explaining it to Xavier or the cops. I flick the knife upwards hard enough for it to lodge in the high ceiling, well out of reach of doing any more harm. I don't need any blade to take this douchebag down; I certainly don't need my claws. He presses what he thinks is an advantage, grabbing me in a bear hug despite his mangled hand and sinking a thumb into my wound. Hurts like fuck, I can't deny it, but it's already healing. With my arms pinned to my sides I smack him in the face with the back of my head, delivering the blow with as much strength as I can muster. It sends him reeling away, clutching his face.

Fugly is gonna pay for carving me up and ruining my shirt. Grabbing his right arm I wrench it sadistically, dislocating his shoulder. Using gravity and the bastard's weight against him, he drops to the floor. Keeping a firm grip I bring my boot down viciously once, twice, three times on his upper arm. I hear three satisfying crunches as bone shatters and with each impact white jagged pieces of humerus erupt through his skin in a welter of blood and raw tissue. Fugly's scream rings out, miraculously drowning out the band which is still playing despite the riot. I let go of the arm and Fugly curls up in a foetal ball around his agony. I look at him squirming around on the floor like a worm exposed and helpless in the noonday sun. The multiple compound fracture of his knife wielding arm is gonna be a real bitch to mend. If it ever does mend.

I look around for the next opponent but the fight's over save for a scuffle or two. There're casualties on both sides but victory belongs to the home team. Soho saunters over, his left eye rapidly swelling shut and blood seeping from a whole bunch of minor abrasions. He peers down at the fugly with the busted arm and shakes his head in wonder.

"A full monty fuck-over. Dat's got to hurt."

"Like I give a shit," I grunt and head for Jessica who's tending a bloody but otherwise upright Hitch. I don't want any sympathy she feels for him to dim the spark that's been struck between us. I take stock of her condition. There are a number of bruises on her arms but nothing like the one forming on her left cheek and temple that is rapidly turning a livid shade of purple.

Gently, I take her chin in my hand, the one that isn't covered in my blood, and examine the damage. "Which one of the fuckers did that?" I demand, with the full intention of ripping the bastard's balls off.

"Back off, tiger, this one's down to friendly fire. I got thrown between two guys duking it out. Soho's guy tried to pull his punch but I was flying through the air so fast I caught the full force of his haymaker upside the head. Knocked me silly for a few moments but Hitch came to my rescue."

Alarmed I ask, "You okay? You feeling dizzy or sick? Maybe I should run you over to the ER and get you checked for fractures or a concussion."

"I'm fine. My ears are still ringing but I don't think any permanent damage has been done." Her breath catches in her throat. "Logan, you're covered in blood. Are you alright?"

"It's someone else's," I lie glibly. "I'm okay. Shirt's ruined though." I manage to chuckle to prove my case but it hurts like fuck. Healing factor's working hard to fix the internal injuries but it ain't quite there yet.

Sal's rotund form bustles across the bar, he's red faced and practically foaming at the mouth after having finally instructed the band to quit playing.

"What the fuck is wrong with you people? Jessie, what the hell you doin' starting a fight when ya should be tendin' bar? Your skanky ass is fired already!"

Before I can lace into the slob Soho intervenes. "Hey, hold yer horses, Sal. Der kid didn't start this, dese fucks did." He gestures to the groaning bodies littering the floor.

"She threw the first punch, I saw her," Sal accuses, his jowly face growing more florid with anger.

"Only after this bastard with the busted arm pulled a knife," I added, furious that Sal is trying to lay the blame on what he considers to be a soft target.

"Ballpeen, Gentry," Soho snaps out. "Go through these suckers wallets. They started this ruckus they can pay for it."

The few fuglies that are able try to resist parting with their cash but they are swiftly and painfully discouraged.

"How much you reckon da damage is, Sal?"

Sal reaches up and scratches the back of his thick, flab wrinkled neck. His hooded eyes flicker about the room, assessing the damage and maybe adding a little extra for interest and inconvenience besides. "How much they got?

The biker called Ballpeen counts the wad of bills in his hands. "Maybe eight fifty, eight seventy five tops between 'em."

"That's how much it'll cost for repairs," Sal says quickly, the light of greed burning brightly in his pale eyes. The truth is, apart from the blood and puke, maybe a dozen broken glasses and a couple of broken chairs, not much damage has been done unless ya count injuries.

"Give der man der money, Ball. Leave der wankers enough gas money to get deir stinkin' arses back to Atlantic City."

Ballpeen peels a number of bills from the wad and throws them contemptuously into face of a fugly sitting up and spitting blood and broken teeth.

Sirens sound in the distance. They're drawing closer. Someone must've called nine one one.

"Get der fuckers out of here, Ball," Soho orders. "No point annoyin' Salem Centre's finest wiv' a pissant misdemeanour like this. Coppers can get real fuckin' antsy havin' to file all dat paperwork and dey might not be particular whose sorry arse dey arrest." Ballpeen and a few of his buddies comply, nudging some of the fuglies back to consciousness with booted feet and throwing abandoned beer in the faces of the ones not so easily rousable. The members of Soho's gang that are still out for the count are treated with slightly more sympathy, pulled to their feet and carried off into the night.

Hitch is dabbing his face with a bar towel. "Fuck! I'm going to have to get my nose reset."

What a shame. Really feel for the guy. Just not very much.

Seems Soho ain't through giving orders. "Girl's shook up, Sal. Maybe you should give her the rest of der night off."

Shoving the bills into a pocket Sal looks at Jessica and then looks at Soho. For a second I think he's gonna protest and good beer, or no good beer, I'm in the mood to rattle his fucking eyeballs loose.

Must've seen the murderous expression of my face when he catches my eye. He shrugs. "Sure. Why not. Just make certain ya report for work six pee em sharp tomorrow Jessie."

"Thanks, Sal," Jessica replies. She looks relieved but don't smell it.

"Maybe you'd better scarper too, Loge," Soho suggests. "I saw you take a hard hit from dat fucker wiv' der blade."

"I knew it," Jessica says worriedly. "You've been cut." She reaches for my sodden shirt and lifts it up. There's no wound for her to see. Her sigh of relief is gratifying and genuine. She don't know me but she cares enough to be concerned.

Soho's hard grey eyes are narrowed. His expression might be unreadable but his body language ain't. He saw. He knows.

"No. I'm fine," I assure her.

What'cha gonna do about it ya cocky little runt? My own stare is a challenge. He grins and says, almost as an aside, "Well some of us are a bit more resilient than others, ain't we, cocker"

He's a mutant? How come I can't smell it on him? Is part of his mutation being able to hide what he is so completely not even I can detect it? I leave it for another time because the sirens are only a couple of blocks away now.

Jessica takes my arm and once more I'm picking up some very stimulating chemical signals wafting from her. "You promised me something to eat," she reminds me. "There's a great pizza place between here and my apartment."

I don't need asking twice. Hope she like's her pizza cold.

**Love it or loathe it, please leave a review. Believe it or not, what you think really does matter to me. :0)**


	10. Good Things

**Disclaimer: **Maggie and Jessica are mine. The others ain't. Life sure can be a bitch that way.

Indebtedness to Dee (MidLifeCrisis) for hauling my butt out of a pit full of writers block slugs. I f you haven't read her X-fic then go there NOW! You won't be disappointed.

I have upgraded the rating of AFON from T to M because Chapter 10 contains an adult situation which may not be suitable for young teens although there is nothing I would consider explicit or slashy. Be warned that the language is still strong.

Thanks to **Dee** (MidLifeCrisis), **joegood2003**, **Dr. Nat,** **dayrunner 145**, **Joruk,** **Taluliaka**, **chris-warren876**, **firefly750**, **Minisinoo, valcat34** and **SaffireSnake **for their encouraging reviews.

**Chapter 10: Good Things**

"Reduce altitude, mister"

People barking orders at me tends to piss me off. Not this one though. This one's wearing an impish smile, a short, loosely tied towelling robe and nothing else. There's something about a beautiful, half naked woman who's animal passion matches my own that makes me feel kinda mellow, ya know?

"Yes, ma'am."

Taking Jessie's bruised face gently in my hands I lower my mouth to her moist, inviting lips and kiss her deeply, hungrily exploring her mouth with a hot, intimate ardour that is rapidly becoming an addiction. Surrendering to my touch like a shy virgin ain't in this girl's repertoire. Reciprocating with a passion that is both chemically and physically charged, Jessie radiates a primal sensuality that kindles a fire in my belly and quickens my pulse. She smells of sex and an all consuming, incandescent desire that overwhelms my senses and drives me wild. No other woman has ever evoked a response like this from me, tapped into my animal impulses and set my entire body aflame. Not even Jeanie.

Christ, I'm growing hard again and I want Jessie so bad it hurts. Dropping my hands to her perfectly sculptured ass I pull her closer in and she rubs against me sensuously. I can't help but growl my pleasure as her movements stimulate me almost to the point of no return. How can this creature wield such power over a cynical, debauched drifter like me? I pull away from her but not far enough to give the impression I want her to stop any time soon.

"Didn't you get enough of me already?" I ask. Her eyes are pools of liquid sapphire that a man can drown in forever. This strange influence she has over me is like a glamour. It's difficult to think straight and my animal is only too willing to give in to it. So is the man.

She looks up at me, her almond shaped eyes provocative slits and her hair still mussed from the wild night we've shared.

"Not nearly enough, buster. You're in my blood now."

The testosterone raging through my veins barely acknowledges what sounds like a declaration of intent. I'm too far gone to care, especially now her hands are busy trying to unfasten the jeans I put on less than ten minutes ago. My own hands slip under the collar of her robe and push it off her shoulders to reveal the creamy skin beneath upon which my lips set to work. Gone is my intention to have an early breakfast in a local diner. All I want is her. To touch her. To feel myself inside her.

Making love to Jessica, lying in her arms and basking in her sweetness, succeeded in holding the nightmares at bay last night. This has never happened before. Not once. Not with any of the ships in the night, fight groupies I've screwed out of sheer loneliness and physical need. And that, in itself, is a miracle. Scooping her up in my arms I head back to the bedroom. Throwing her arms around my neck she smothers me with another one of her devastating kisses and I growl my growing excitement into her mouth. Lowering her tenderly onto the rumpled bed I shrug out of my jeans and peel away her bathrobe. Then she reminds me one more time exactly why it is I want to see her again.

-o0o-

She's so beautiful, lying on her side, her head propped up with one hand, her hair spilling across the pillow and down her arm, sheet demurely draped across her breasts, her eyes searching my face. What the hell's she doing working in a snake pit like the Auger and picking up guys like me? She running away from trouble? Or looking for it?

"Logan, do you have to go?"

Jessica pouts her disappointment as I caress the delicate contours of her hip with my fingertips. The soft linen of the sheet is no substitute for the silkiness of her skin but I'll take what I can get. She's so far removed from the hard-faced, sexual predators I usually end up with I can hardly believe my luck. I breathe in her scent, indelibly imprinting it upon my brain, basking in her womanly glory. I want to remember everything, every touch, every sensation, every smile, every word. What was it she said? I'm in her blood? What the hell does that mean? That she wants me around? And that's a good thing ain't it?

I don't really understand what's happening to me. Somehow Jessie has slipped through my defences and it's like throwing wide the shutters and letting in the light. Part of me, the paranoid psychotic who's kept me running across Canada and Alaska for so long, screams at me to get the hell away from her. I fight. I fuck. I leave. It's what I do. Why change the habit of a lifetime? For me, staying in one place too long makes me a target for the bastards who tore my life and body apart. And that ain't a good thing is it?

"Hey, big guy," Jessie prompts, shaking me out of my reverie, "You zoning out on me?"

"Uh, no. Sorry, just thinking. Don't have a choice. Got a meeting at eight thirty and a bunch of people are relying on me to be there."

Actually I do have a choice. The X Men need me more'n I need them. I could say the hell with Xavier and his happy band of gooders. Summers reckons I'm a selfish son of a bitch. Why not prove him right by walking away and never looking back? It would be my parting gift to the bastard.

"On a Sunday?"

I shrug. "Wasn't planning on a distraction." I ain't gonna walk away from 'em am I? I got too much at stake to leave now.

Jessie reaches out and strokes my face. The sensation of her fingers snaking through my mutton chops is too much. Taking her hand in mine I kiss the inside of her wrist.

"Is that what I am? A distraction?" I'm sensing bitterness; disappointment. Perhaps the kindest thing to do is to leave now. But first I gotta know. I gotta ask her.

"Why?"

She looks so cute when she frowns. "Why what?"

"Why me? Why the Auger? You don't look the type to go around picking up stray dogs."

Extricating her hand from my grasp she grumbles, "You sure know how to kill the mood of the moment don't you."

If only she knew.

"Why the Auger? Because I needed money fast and Sal was good enough to take me on then and there. Why you? You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

She begins to pick at an imaginary loose thread on the sheet. Nervousness and quiet determination war with each other. Finally she takes a deep breath. "Do you believe in predestination?"

"You mean fortunetelling and shit? No."

"Neither did I until you walked into the bar last night."

What the hell is this? "You're kidding, right?"

No longer worrying the sheet, her body stiffens, as if she's going to throw a mad. Just as quickly the impetus is gone and she relaxes with a sigh. "Logan, I've never been more serious in my life."

She ain't lying.

"Maybe you should start at the beginning," I suggest.

"Not much to tell really. I went with some friends to one of those spook parties. You know, rubbing shoulders with Wiccans, clairvoyants, crystal ball gazers, tarot readers, runecasters and the like."

I don't know but it sounds like a scam to part people from their cash. "Go on."

"There was this old African American woman with a Bayou accent who read my palm after I asked her if I would ever find Mister Right. I'd just got stung big time by Mister Wrong." There's good honest hatred there. She ain't pining after him.

"Someone hurt you?"

"Yeah."

"Let me guess, he ran off with some bimbo with an IQ to match her shoe size?"

Her lips form a moue of bitterness. "If only that was the case."

I arch an eyebrow. "He ran off with a guy?"

Her laughter is a wonderful thing to hear. "No silly. He was an asshole and I'm glad I found out sooner rather than later."

I grin. "Right. So?"

"So this Bayou lady was into the palmistry thing. She knew I'd suffered some serious shit but she could have overheard me talking with my friends. Then she gave me the tall, dark and handsome routine and at that point I thought she was nothing but an old fraud. Finally, she spewed out some incomprehensible guff about psychic realms and twinned souls and how, when I met the right man with a particular aura, I would know. I would feel it here."

Jessie reaches out and touches me in the centre of my forehead.

"People get headaches all the time, darlin'."

"Not a headache. It was like getting zapped by a bolt of lightning. That's how I knew you were the one."

"Hey, my name ain't Neo."

Giggling mischievously she snuggles into my arms. "No, it isn't. But you're definitely the one she foretold. I've been searching for you all my life except didn't know it until you walked into the bar. On the dance floor all I could think about was, you know, touching you, making you want me. I was on fire, my blood coursing through my veins like molten obsession. And this from a good Catholic girl who barely holds hands on a first date."

She'd felt it too. The strange compulsion burning through her like a cleansing fire. "That's some pretty weird shit, Jessie." I nuzzle her hair with my cheek. "So this is what fate feels like huh?"

"I guess."

We both fall silent for a few moments and I'm content just listening to her breathing, feeling her heart beat against my ribs. I could stay like this forever, problem is, time's pressing.

Reluctantly, I shift my weight, pulling away from her as gently as I can. "As much as I hate to run, I gotta go, sweetheart."

Anxiety spikes through her. "Will I see you again?"

"Hey, if the Bayou lady's cool with it who am I to argue? I'll pick you up here at five forty-five, okay and I'll stay with you until your shift ends. Then we can go and eat if you like."

The anxiety evaporates. Suddenly shy, she says, "I don't even know your name."

"Yeah ya do."

"Not all of it."

"Then that makes two of us." The expression on her face is classic. "I'll explain it later, okay?"

She looks dubious, as if I've just brushed her off. "I'm Jessica Frances Commeau."

"Nice to meet you, Jessica Frances Commeau."

I kiss her again and experience that inexorable compulsion to melt into her arms, to combine into that single, conflagrating entity one more time. Reluctantly, I exert the full force of my will to break the contact. Breathing heavily I can't help thinking that there's gotta be something to that mystic shit after all. Either that or Bayou lady is a mutant precog. Might be worthwhile mentioning her to Xavier. Could be a good tactical advantage to be one step ahead of the bad guys once in a while.

Before I leave we exchange phone numbers. Never done that before. Two new experiences in one day and neither of them nasty. Who'd of thought it?

-o0o-

I quickly towel myself dry. Having showered at Jessie's place last night to wash off the blood from the fight I was reluctant to wash her heady scent from me after returning to the mansion. Fact is her scent is a distraction and I don't want to find myself fixating on her when I should be concentrating on explaining to Xavier and Summers why it's a bad idea to spread one egg between too many baskets. Reaching into the laundry hamper I haul out fresh clothing. No point pressing clothes 'coz they're only gonna get rumpled again. I try and smooth some of the worst wrinkles out of the T shirt and give up. Guess the grunge look has just come back into fashion.

Down on the first floor the smell of breakfast wafting from the kitchen makes my stomach growl. It's been a long time since the pizza Jessie and I shared and my body craves fuel to replace the energy used up healing the knife wound. Not having time to eat right now don't mean I can't ask Maggie to put something by for later. It'll take no time at all to swing by the kitchen.

"Morning Maggie," I say, grinning at the matronly woman loading a tray with sizzling bacon. My mouth waters and temptation proves too strong to resist. I swipe a succulent slice from the tray and stuff it in my mouth. It's hot so I try and suck in air around it.

She looks up. Brown eyes the colour of faded autumn leaves seem to look through me and I can sense her surprise. "Logan?"

"Yeah, that was the asshole staring out of the shaving mirror this morning," I mumble as I chew contentedly and reach for another slice. Maggie takes up a spatula and bats my hand away from the tray. I grin manically, dodge her efforts to swat me and snag another piece.

"The Logan I know is a stroppy sod who growls like a bear with a toothache and mauls people with his scathing sarcasm. He certainly isn't a morning person, ergo you are not him." Holding the spatula defensively Maggie makes a show of protecting the tray.

Licking the grease from my fingers I smirk, "Would a pod Logan filch bacon?"

"A hungry one might. Isn't there somewhere you should be?"

"Yeah, but I had to leave there to come back here."

A slow, knowing smile spreads across Maggie's face. "I knew it. I sensed a fundamental change in your psyche when you came in just now. You've met someone haven't you?"

"How d'ya know I haven't discovered a great new beer?"

"Because not even a reprobate like you could get this worked up over beer, pet. Besides, you're giving off the same emotions my Ben did on our wedding night. He hadn't discovered a great new beer either."

All I can do is grin. The expression on Maggie's face is wicked with humour. Bursting into laughter she confides, "You're a fast worker aren't you? Such a pity courting a girl has gone out of fashion. However, your secret is safe with me. Anyone capable of putting a smile on the face of someone as distrusting and traumatised as you must be a very special person indeed."

"She is," I admit.

"You know where to find me if you want to talk about this."

"Thanks." I don't intend to share Jessie with anyone just yet, not even by proxy. As an afterthought is ask, "Do you believe in sexual chemistry, Maggie?"

"Believe in it? Sweetheart, I married it. The first time I set eyes on Ben it was as if I'd found a part of myself I didn't know I'd lost."

I stare at her, trying my damnedest not to look as stunned as I feel.

Maggie puts her hand to her mouth. "Oh, my. No wonder you're prancing around like a yearling colt."

Hey, raging hetero here! "I do not prance!"

"Metaphorically, dear, you do it as well as the best of us." There's a twinkle in her eye. She's yanking my chain and enjoying seeing me yelp in protest.

Not wanting to share my private life with anyone else I ask, "Does it show?"

"People are used to seeing a surly grouch prowling around the school. You could try not grinning like a Cheshire cat. Just think growly."

I chuckle. "Think growly. Right."

"You have a beautiful smile, Logan. I'd like to see you keep it so promise me one thing will you, pet?"

"What's that?"

"Make certain you're firmly anchored to something before you throw yourself over the parapet. Hitting rock bottom is a killer."

I nod. Maggie's advising caution but I'm not some love struck teen falling for the first skirt that bats her eyelids at me. I'm gonna put all my cards on the table about my mutation, my feral nature and the claws. I want no lies, no secrets or uncertainties about what I am. If she still wants me after that then I'll buy, borrow or steal the biggest bungee rope I can find.

-o0o-

Thrusting a plate containing two of Maggie's celebrated bacon doorstop sandwiches into my left hand and a steaming mug of black coffee into my right one, she boots me out of the kitchen. I have fun juggling the plate and the mug so I can slap my right hand flat on the security scanner allowing access to the lift down to the sub-basement and curse roundly as I manage to scald myself in the process. The door slides smoothly aside and I enter, taking care not to spill more coffee as the lift sets in motion.

The Danger Room door has been rehung on its hinges as a temporary measure but it's still buckled all to fuck. That's some punch Summers' optic nerves can pack. Speak of the Devil. I can hear his voice filtering through a door up ahead.

"…but what the hell has a wildcard like him have to offer, apart from his scattergun effect? How do we know that any so called military expertise he brings to the table is for real?"

Nice. Great to know the Fearless Leader has so much confidence in me. He's set the tone of the meeting and I ain't even fucking arrived yet. Think growly, Maggie said. Not a problem.

My proximity to the Strategy Rooms triggers the door mechanism and any response to Summers' question is silenced as I walk through the door. They're all there; Xavier, Summers, 'Ro and Stinky the Elf. The door closes behind me with a hiss of hydraulics and I head for an empty chair. The room fills with the satisfying aromas of coffee and bacon and I can hear at least one stomach grumbling. Guess 'Ro ain't had her chow yet.

"Good morning, Logan."

"Charlie," I grunt in response. He's got that passive smile on his face I loathe. For some reason he thinks I find it reassuring but it makes me want to take out my wallet and check all the bills are still there.

Summers is propping up a metal cabinet, arms folded across his chest, looking and smelling completely pissed off. The expression on his face is so stony it could crack nuts. He knows I heard what he said and ain't hypocritical enough to offer a greeting. Instead he just stares at me as I make my way across the room. Xavier, 'Ro and Stinky are seated around the holo-map table and I take the empty seat on 'Ro's left so I'm facing both Xavier and Summers across the table. 'Ro nods her head in greeting and I follow suit. Stinky, seated on 'Ro's right, bobs nervously and I ain't sure whether he's trying to lay an egg or say hello so I ignore him.

Stretching my legs out straight I rest my booted feet on the edge of the table. This is gonna be a rough ride so I might as well make myself comfortable. Plate balanced on my lap, mug of coffee steaming aromatically on the floor at the side of my chair, I pick up a sandwich and take a monster bite out of it. I need the sustenance because the combination of healing major organs, making love to Jessie plus a chronic lack of sleep is taking its toll on my physical endurance. Gonna make up for that just as soon as this fucking circus is over.

"I know we can't compete with Fat Joe's Diner, Logan, but feel free to make yourself comfortable why don't you." Summers is on form.

"Thanks," I reply, taking him at his word by munching slowly and settling deeper into the chair. "I'll do just that." One-eye is seething silently, tainting the atmosphere with a anger so thick ya can cut it with a knife.

"Let's get straight down to business shall we?" Xavier says briskly. "Following the team's temporary hiatus…"

Oh no ya don't, Cue-ball. I got zero tolerance for yer bullshit, particularly after yesterday and I want out of this pissing match ASAP so I can get stack some zees.

"Stuff your semantics Charlie. Jean died and the fucking team fell apart. So far you ain't found an intellectual Band-aid big enough to plaster over this mess and half-assed rationalisation like that ain't gonna help none."

I manage to get the words _Jean died_ out without choking on them. They elicit a swift spasm of pain on Fearless Leader's face but it's gone so fast I'm sure I'm the only one that witnessed it.

"Logan…" Summers warns, his lips twisted into a grimace, his tone harsh and heavy with resentment.

Xavier raises his hand, his gesture for silence revealing a pristine white cuff beneath his pale grey jacket sleeve. Summers obeys the tacit order and clamps his mouth shut. He don't like it. Wait 'til I apply verbal electrodes to that steel rod he has permanently wedged up his ass. He's gonna like that even less.

"Logan is quite correct. Jean's demise has adversely affected the team's operational capacity and this is a situation that cannot be allowed to continue."

Summers shakes his head impatiently. "Jean's…loss has altered the team's structure for sure, but not irrevocably. You yourself approved the new training schedules that optimise the skills dynamic of the new team. We've been primed at mission ready for weeks, Professor. We're just waiting on the call."

"So, whose on this wonderful team," I ask. Summers looks at me like I've just pissed on his boots. In a way, that's precisely what I've done.

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"It's a simple enough question, Beam Boy. Humour me and tell me who's on the fucking team."

Xavier nods at the Fearless Leader encouragingly. Lips thin and puckered like the man who's just sucked a thousand lemons, Summers does as requested. "Me, Storm, Nightcrawler and you."

"Well, we have a problem right there. Ya see, I ain't been formally asked to join yer team." Although I can't see 'em I'm certain his eyes are bulging beneath that damn visor. I take a bite of my sandwich and munch with exaggerated relish.

"Your presence on the team was a given, Logan. You telling me you're feeling insulted because you weren't asked?"

Taking time to swallow, I reply, "Nah, I'm pissed 'coz you assumed I wanted to be part of the team."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? You saying you want out? You got your wish mister."

Rising to the bait just like a Hollywood shark. This asshole is still a fucking liability and there's no way I'm putting my butt in harm's way if a pivotal member of the team ain't firing on all cylinders. Unless Summers can get beyond Jean's death he's through as a competent leader.

"That's it. I'm outta here, Charlie. There's no fucking way I can work with an amateur outfit like this. You're on yer own."

Summers goes ballistic. Uncrossing his arms he takes a menacing step forward, bracing himself on the holo-map table. "Fuck you, Logan," he rasps, "The team doesn't need a backwoods animal like you muddying the waters. While you've been hauling your sorry ass all over Canada and beating up on unsuspecting rednecks, the X Men have been making a difference to…

"Enough!" Xavier thunders.

It's the first time I've ever heard him raise his voice above conversational and, judging by the stunned look on Summers' face, it's a first for him too. Beside me, 'Ro draws in a sharp breath, her body tense as witnessed by the creamy white knuckles of her hands gripping the arms of her chair. Stinky's ceased his bobbing, preferring to sit hunched, his eyes downcast like a chastised kid.

"What on earth are you doing, Logan?" 'Ro whispers, her voiced strained. I ignore her, choosing instead to take another bite of the sandwich while eyeing Summers challengingly. Summers, his face stricken and pale, has his attention fixed on Xavier.

Xavier closes his eyes, bowing his head slightly as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Composure recovered he turns his steely, narrow eyed gaze on his protégé.

"Those remarks are irrational and unworthy of you Scott and are symptomatic of the reason the team has remained non-operational since Alkali Lake."

Summers looks defeated as he slumps into a nearby chair. "I'm sorry, Professor. I…since Jean died it's been difficult to think straight."

"It's called battle fatigue, kid. Seen it more times'n I wanna count." Summers throws me a what-the-hell-do-you-know look but says nothing more.

"Logan is correct. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, even in a mild form, can be very debilitating."

"I do not have Post Traumatic…"

"Stand down, Mister Summers." Xavier's command has a distinct military clip and I wonder if he got measured for his wheelchair somewhere like 'Nam. Summers is a natural leader but he must have received his training from someone. Who'da guessed it was from the pansy-assed head pacifist himself? My respect for Cue-ball has just crawled out of the root cellar.

"There any point in this meeting carrying on?" I enquire, trying not to sound hopeful.

"Scott?" Xavier is giving his Head Boy the choice of continuing or calling a halt.

"If I'm the reason the team has been compromised then it's my duty to stand aside as leader…"

"I ain't disputing yer leadership, kid. Just ya current state of mind." Hell, I'm only just getting warmed up.

Remaining tight lipped, Summers nods, acknowledging what I just said. Finally, "I'm sorry, Logan. I had no right saying those things."

"No offence taken," I grin. "It was a damn accurate description of the last fifteen years of my life."

Mixed emotions pour off of him, the most prominent being a sense of puzzlement. I'd've beaten the crap outta anyone else for saying what he did and he knows it.

"Jean's death has affected us all deeply, some more than others." Xavier looks directly at me. I feign nonchalance and take another bite of the sandwich. "I thought it prudent to allow us all time to grieve. However that time is now past. Even as I speak, Erik is free and I have no reason to assume that his stay in prison has brought about a fundamental change in his ambition to wage war against humanity. We must be prepared to deal with him."

What's this? Has Xavier undergone a Damascene conversion over his old buddy? Probably not. He's still hoping for a peaceful solution but there's only one language Magneto understands and I'm fluent in it.

'Ro enters the debate with, "And we will be, Professor."

"Are you with us in this?" It takes a few moments to realise Summer's has aimed his question at me.

I shrug. "Depends."

Sounding resigned Summers asks, "On what?"

"One whether or not you intend to take measures that'll prevent the team getting its collective butt kicked by the likes of that slimy-ass Toad creep." I take another deliberate bite of my sandwich and study him as I chew and swallow.

Watching Summers' reactions is very telling. Jaw muscles spasm with the high wattage anger he's giving off and his lips form thin, rigid lines. For a moment I think he's gonna throw another mad. Instead he drops his head forward slightly as if deep in thought. He ain't though. I can feel him controlling the emotions that have prevented him from functioning as an effective field commander. He's thrusting personal animosity and the mind numbing grief aside and now he's thinking like a leader, assimilating what I've said.

"Toad took us by surprise." 'Ro tucks a strand of her long white hair behind an ear. She has the decency to sound embarrassed.

"All three of you?" I snort incredulously. "What did ya do, stand in line while Frog Boy dished it out?"

"Of course not." Her turn to be angry now. She's bristling with it.

"Then why didn't you zap the bastard while he was busy with your team mates? Why did you hesitate 'Ro? Did ya panic or were ya afraid to hurt the asshole?"

I read the debriefing report when I got out of med-bay. It made for grim reading. Bad enough Toad took down both Jeannie and Summers in a matter of seconds. But how come 'Ro didn't get any licks in before being chucked down the lift shaft on the upper mezzanine floor? Jeannie almost suffocated in goop because 'Ro hesitated.

"I didn't panic. I…"

"Put an enemy's life before that of a team mate," I finished for her. I turn to Xavier. "See what I mean, Charlie? Yer pacifist bullshit screws the team's priorities all to fuck. Worrying about giving murdering scum a boo-boo when fighting for their lives is gonna get 'em killed."

'Ro leaps to Xavier's defence. "We are not murderers, Logan. With the Professor's guidance and Scott's leadership we have managed to avoid many fatalities."

Xavier inclines his bald head, his expression grim. We've had this argument before. Looks like we're about to have it again.

"Ororo is quite correct. Killing makes us no better than those who seek to kill us. We are better than that."

And look where it's gonna get ya, Charlie. "Better than what? You saying it's better to die than inflict a little righteous pain?"

"What the hell do you know about it, Logan? You don't even know your own damn name," Summers retorts. His ass hairs are twitching again. "Shit!" he snarls in a plaintive voice. As quickly as his temper flares, it dies. "Sorry."

"You've been lucky so far, kid, but luck don't last."

"Losing Jean was lucky?" Bitterness now. This kid is on the mother of all emotional roller coasters. Xavier's got his work cut out pulling him back from the edge.

"That ain't what I said and you fucking know it."

"That is quite enough, Logan," 'Ro opines.

The gorgeous lightning queen is leaping to the defence of her team leader. An admirable trait but in this instance a misguided one. She should be questioning the reason the team's gone all to shit, not defending it. This is the precise kind of navel gazing bull that's caused this cluster-fuck. Behind me I can hear Stinky's tail beating the air nervously. Not certain of his status, he's hesitant to speak; an outsider like me; possibly objective like me if he ain't too taken with 'Ro. He may be of some use after all. Just so long as it doesn't involve prayer beads and a Hail Mary.

"Ya think? Then let's hope a pretty please'll persuade Magneto to shelve his latest mutant supremacy plot while you pansies take time out for your pity party."

She looks at me sidelong, her breathing deepening perceptibly as strong emotions raise her pulse. I gotta love the way it effects the white camisole top she's wearing. Just as well she can't read my thoughts otherwise my ass would be toast.

Xavier hasn't missed a trick either. He intervenes quickly, diverting attention back to the matter in hand.

"Logan has raised a valid point. While preserving life must be an important factor, it is clear to me that an accommodation must be reached to ensure the ability to defend oneself is not diminished. We must also put aside issues that are pulling the team apart. Until such a time we cannot function either optimally or cohesively."

"We've done okay so far," Summers says defensively.

Ya think so, Beam Boy? "You've done San Ferry Ann since Alkali Lake. If that's your idea of okay then we're fucked before we start."

Summers glares at me. "San Ferry Ann? What the hell's a song by Paul McCartney got to do with anything?"

Xavier raises a questioning eyebrow in my direction. "San Ferry Ann is an obscure expression the English Tommies used in World War One. Basically it means…"

"Sweet fuck all," I interrupt.

"Amongst other things," Xavier finishes. "Could you please dispense with the profanities, Logan? There's little need for such contentious language here."

Oh, there's no way in hell, Charlie. This is one bitter pill that don't deserve sugar coating. "There's every need of it if it wakes you pussies up so ya can see what's creeping up on ya." Damn, the sandwich is going cold. I take another bite.

"We are very aware of what is creeping up on us, Logan," Xavier says. There's a lot of ice attached to them words.

"This is getting us nowhere." 'Ro's deep brown eyes flash her exasperation and my scalp begins to itch. She's getting riled up and inadvertently charging the air with ions. I hope the lady ain't about to loose her cool 'coz I don't relish the idea of getting flash fried. "Perhaps Logan should simply tell us precisely what he has observed so we can take things from there."

"Ororo's right, Logan," Summers grates. "Please endow us with the benefit of your expansive tactical knowledge."

Fine but first I'm gonna finish this sandwich. I take another bite.

"In your own time, Logan. Saving the world from monstrous tyranny can wait."

Fucking comedian. Ignoring Summers' jibe I continue to eat, finally washing down the sandwich with a few gulps of coffee. The other sandwich will have to wait. Regrettable but sacrifices have to be made occasionally. Whatever happened to patience is a virtue? Have these people no idea how important that first meal of the day is?

Sufficiently fortified, I begin. "For starters yer all one trick ponies. No opportunity to use powers gets you yer asses handed to ya on a plate by people who shouldn'ta been able to outmatch ya." The irony of the situation is, so have I. An awkward fact they don't need to know.

"But surely our talents and skills make up for zis lack." Wagner's tail is still twitching nervously. Guess he ain't gonna be much fucking help after all. Has no one noticed that with his yellow eyes and blue skin he is eerily reminiscent of that über bitch, Mystique?

"What d'ya suppose'll happen when ya can't use yer talent, Elf? Ya think the bastard trying to kill ya is gonna come over all noble and back off like a gentleman? Is that what ya think?"

That really gets his tail twitching. "My name is Kurt Wagner, not Elf."

"Like that's gonna save yer blue ass if ya can't bamf outta trouble."

'Ro raises a delicate white eyebrow. "Bamf?"

"You gotta better description for it, darlin'?"

She nods. She seems to have regained her poise which indicates she's paying attention, assimilating what I've said so far. "It's appropriate. Very onomatopoeic."

"You're saying we need to improve our hand to hand combat skills to defend ourselves against mutants who get up close and personal," Summers says, putting the conversation back on track. I can almost hear the cogs whirring in his head. "I'll go along with that."

Give the man a cee-gar!

Xavier steeples his fingers thoughtfully. "That should not pose a problem. Comprehensive, full spectrum martial arts protocols can be programmed into the Danger Room computer to improve the efficiency of generated avatars."

What is it with Xavier and his fucking gizmos? "Ain't good enough Charlie. This kinda stuff is best learned mano a mano. Ya need a flesh and blood instructor and live practice partners."

"And you're just the man for the job are you?" Summers enquires.

"Nope, but I might know someone who is. I'll have to get back to ya on that one."

And pray this long shot don't recoil and punch me in the face. While driving to Jessie's place last night we talked about the fight and she told me she was a fifth dan karate black belt. I'm hoping the prospect of teaching mutant gooders to fight up close and personal has got to be way more appealing than tending bar in a sleaze-pit. Pay'll be better too 'coz Xavier's worth a buck or two. Of course, first I gotta break the news that I'm a mutant and if she's okay with that Charlie will want to satisfy himself she ain't a security risk.

"Do not be too hasty to dismiss programmed avatars as unsuitable for training, Logan." Xavier defending his cyber pets here? "They will be useful to help hone acquired fighting techniques and, as you know only too well, they can be programmed to respond progressively."

Like I need reminding of that? I shrug. "Yeah, whatever. You're the ringmaster."

"Okay," Summers concedes. "You've identified a weakness and what you've said so far makes sense."

Hell, is that a compliment? Best nail the sucker to the wall and bash its head in before it cripples my rep.

"That was the easy part. I can guarantee you ain't gonna like the follow up."

"You have something more to add?" Summers don't look too happy. He's gonna have to get used to it.

"There ain't enough of ya. Ya need to add some complimentary talents to the mix."

This announcement puts a deeper frown on Summers' brow. "What do you mean?"

He knows exactly what I mean. He ain't stupid.

"Ya got a pool of untapped talent right under yer noses but ya don't capitalise on the potential."

"Untapped talent? You can't be serious. They're children." Guess that was expected. Judging by the expression on everyone else's face they're in agreement with old One-eye.

"Some of 'em ain't. Pyro took down a whole squad of Boston's finest like a fucking pro and Rogue neutralised him after he went too far. Do I need to mention how she also saved our collective asses in Canada? The steel guy built like a brick shithouse cleaned house real good and kept his cool. He took the kids to safety while I went after Stryker's goons. And talking about cool, Bobby Drake knows how to handle himself in a tight situation and is a steadying influence on the other kids. The kid that does the Casper thing…"

"Kitty Pryde," Xavier adds helpfully.

"Yeah, her. You didn't have any compunction about her infiltrating the Pentagon with Summers and me and have her sneak hardcopy and encrypted computer files from Stryker's office so where d'ya come off being holier than thou when I suggest you utilise the talents these kids can bring to the table?"

"This is an outrageous suggestion. Those children come to us for safety…"

Summers is gonna be a real pain in the ass over this. Maybe if his nose wasn't so firmly jammed up it…

"No they don't. They come here to learn how to survive in a world that mostly wants to see 'em dead. In Boston, when I was shot in the head by that numbnuts cop, they took care of themselves. Those kids fought for survival against trigger happy, heavily armed police who didn't care how they took us down and they fucking won."

Xavier's trying hard to looked pained but ain't succeeding. He wants to protect them but knows I'm right. I got a feeling we're all running out of time and it's a feeling Xavier shares. "That is stating the case somewhat dramatically, Logan." What's this? An attempt to pacify the dissenters?

"That's stating the facts, Charlie. I know they're young but would it hurt to train 'em how to fight? Thanks to Stryker, people know what we are and where we are. There's uglier motherfuckers out there who want us dead. Don't let your over protective gooder philosophy get in the way of common sense."

"This issue needs further discussion, Logan." Xavier falls silent, cradling his chin in his hand, looking at me thoughtfully.

"Point made, Logan, but I'll take it under advisement," Summers announces. "Do you have any more words of wisdom for us?"

Condescension. Does Summers never get tired of being Head Boy?

"Yeah. Ya can't polish a turd and the fuck-up fairy never sleeps."

Summers snorts, annoyed 'coz he thinks I'm taking the piss. "Very eloquent. Very succinct. Do these little pearls translate into English?"

"If ya need me to spell it out…"

"No need," 'Ro interrupts. "We understand you plainly enough. You can't make a butterfly out of a blowfly and even the most carefully prepared plans can go wrong."

"Dunno about the insects, darlin' but ya got the message loud and clear. Gilding stupid ideas is something of a cottage industry around here."

I fix my gaze on Xavier. He keeps his expression bland, neutral. "I agree that there is room for improvement, Logan. Together we can work something out. But we are not savages. Taking a human life must be the very last resort and only if circumstances are extreme enough to warrant it."

"Fair enough," I accept. "But I maintain the best defence is still a good offence.

"Isn't that an overly aggressive policy?" A frown creases Xavier's brow.

"Nope. You wanted my input, my assessment of the teams failings and how they might be improved. Ya got it. What ya do with it is up to you."

Reaching for the now cold sandwich I begin to snarf it down.

-o0o-

The meeting broke up pretty quickly after I had my say. Xavier and Summers stayed behind in the Strategy Room talking quietly while 'Ro, Stinky and I made our way to the first floor.

'Ro breaks the uneasy silence. "You do not take any prisoners do you Logan?"

"I tell it like it is, darlin'. You got a problem with that?"

"Actually, no I do not."

"Thought not," I grunt.

"You are very sure of yourself."

I tap the side of my nose. "I can smell when people are shitting me, 'Ro. Body chemistry is a dead giveaway."

"You are quite possibly the rudest man I've ever met." She smiles as she says that.

Raising a quizzical eyebrow I reply, "Only possibly? My standards must be slipping."

"You are also incorrigible."

I laugh. I've been called far worse names.

Stinky is trailing us quietly, like he's trying to pretend he isn't there. I can sense his unease. I can also detect a faint but acrid, sulphurous odour clinging to him, the residue of his last bamf. He smells like a box of matches.

"The Lord teaches that ve should turn the other cheek," he mutters unhappily.

"And what would ya do if someone rips that cheek clean off of ya face, Elf? Or were in the process of doing the same to 'Ro? Sing the bastards a hymn and hope they'll repent maybe?"

"It vould be a sin to take a life." He delivers that like a sermon, his weird yellow eyes full of sorrow.

"And letting them take yours would be better? Are you for fucking real?"

He hauls himself straight with indignation. "Der Professor feels I haf something important to contribute to der team."

Fuck indignation. I'm more interested in survival. "The Professor ain't gotta worry about you covering his ass in a scrap. You wanna be a martyr then fuck off and go do it somewhere else. I don't wanna too-dumb-to-live liability watching my back or anyone else's when things go tits up."

"No one is asking you to take a life, Kurt," 'Ro says soothingly. "It is possible to incapacitate without killing."

"That why ya chucked Frog Boy into the river?"

Her nostrils flair. This really is a sticking point between us. "Yes. I stunned him into insensibility. Effectively the fight was over for him."

"Hope ya remind him of that next time he comes gunning for ya."

"You believe I should have killed him?" she asks, obviously troubled by my persistence.

"Dead people have a tendency to not return the favour."

"Unless they're called Logan." 'Ro treats me to one of her wonderful smiles. "Why did you become so cynical?"

"Survival trait. Some bastard tries to off me then all fucking bets are off. There ain't no second chances."

"You didn't kill Mystique," she reminds me.

Not for want of trying. "Thought I had but she's tougher than most. I won't make that mistake again."

"Even though your mistake allowed her to play a vital role at Alkali Lake?"

I snort, remembering how Mystique wanted to expand on that role in the tent. "Ever heard of improvisation?"

"Yes. Moira was impressed by your improvisation yesterday. It is not the sort of thing one would expect from a member of the faculty but throwing Rahne in the fountain proved most effective."

What the fuck? "I ain't a member of the faculty."

'Ro rolls her eyes, her amusement plain. "Really? Then what are you?"

"I'm a fucked in the head feral berserker trying to get by. Thought ya knew that."

'Ro looks over her shoulder at Stinky. "Kurt, can you give me a few minutes with Logan please? I'll join you for breakfast presently."

Elf don't look too happy about it. Too bad. "Ja, Ororo. I vill vait for you in the dining room." And then, without warning, the bastard bamfs and I get a lungful of his toxic fumes.

"Fuck!" Too late I slap a hand over my nose and mouth and distance myself as fast as I can from the dispersing blue cloud.

"Logan, are you all right?" she enquires, concerned by my actions.

"The little shit did that on purpose," I choke out, trying hard not to breathe in any more fumes. My nose and throat are on fire, my eyes watering like crazy, making my vision swim. Worse, my stomach is trying its utmost to eject my breakfast.

"Could it be the big, bad Wolverine is bothered by a nasty smell?"

Har fucking har. "You ever tried breathing in weapons grade mace when you've got senses keener than an animal?" I snarl as I rub my eyes and wipe away snot. The burning quickly diminishes to an annoying sting as the healing factor goes to work.

"I'm sorry. I'm sure it was unintentional, Logan. You were hard on Kurt, although you believe it was for his own good but he bears no malice. He doesn't have it in him. It obviously hasn't occurred to him bamfing produces an adverse reaction in you." She pauses, a frown rippling her brow. "How come you seem to cope when you are in the Danger Room together."

"It's not so bad if I know he's gonna bamf within a few feet of me. I can hold my breath. Sucking in the undiluted shit is the real killer. Dispersed in the air, it's unpleasant but otherwise harmless. The good news is, the stuff disperses fast."

"This could have serious repercussions. I'll mention it to him."

"You do that." I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand.

"With Kurt on the team the two of you will have to work something out, some sort of early warning system. We can't have you wheezing like an asthmatic in the middle of an affray. And we do not want to give the opposition any nasty ideas do we?"

"Won't be a problem." She's got the instincts of a fighter. 'Ro might not be prepared to kill but I know she's a formidable force to reckon with. "Nice to know ya not just a pretty face, 'Ro."

She grins. "Coming from you, that is a compliment. However, discussing battle tactics is not why I wish to talk to you privately."

"Oh?"

"I am very concerned about Rahne."

Aw shit. Not you too. "You should be."

She nods. "I'm as equally concerned about Moira."

"Why? Moira ain't gonna wolf out on ya."

Crossing her arms across her chest, she asks, "What do you know about her, Logan?"

I shrug. "She's Scottish, she's shrewd and she's a sucker for hopeless cases."

"She is also a long standing friend of Charles."

"Like I said, she's a sucker for hopeless cases."

My attempt at levity misses wide of the mark. "Are you aware she has a son?"

"Nope."

"He's been kept in a stasis chamber at her research facility on Muir Island since he was thirteen years old. That is eleven years of his life spent in the scientific equivalent of a meat locker. His mutation is so lethal, both to himself and others, Moira had no choice other than to neutralise him in the only way possible without killing him. Not for nothing has Moira, a renowned biochemist, become the world's foremost expert on the X gene. She is desperate to discover the means for her son to lead a normal life and to help others seriously afflicted by their mutations."

I didn't know that. "That's a tough break. Moira's a real nice lady."

'Ro looks me in the eye in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable. "Are you going to help Rahne?"

"I don't think it's a good idea," I reply, going on the defensive. "The kid needs specialist help."

"Numbskull! You _are_ the specialist help. Throwing Rahne in the fountain was unconventional but it worked like a charm. Moira told me it normally takes hours for Rahne to snap herself out of a feral episode." She stoops slightly, lowering her head and trying to hide her exasperation. With a nose like mine a ploy like that it ain't never gonna work.

"Me too. Unless I get my ass royally kicked by a weather goddess."

Eyes narrowed, lips pursed, 'Ro glares at me, waiting for a particular response.

"I got lucky, okay." I also got a kick in the balls for my trouble. "Besides, what the fuck do I know about kids?"

"Enough to kill to protect them, or sacrifice your own life if necessary," she points out. "But Moira isn't asking you to do either of those things. She's asking that you help keep Rahne from being penned up for life like a dangerous animal. Or worse, permanently dosed up on pacifying drugs. Will you at least think about it?"

"Did Xavier put you up to this?"

"Charles? No. Why would he?"

I can't smell the lie on her. She's talking to me on her own account. "Moira sure has a lot of friends in Westchester."

"So do you. Please tell me you will at least think about it."

"Okay, I'll think about it."

"You promise?"

"Don't push it 'Ro."

"This is very important."

"I know. We through?"

She sighs. "For now. I have those toiletries you asked for. I'll drop them by later if that is convenient."

"Thanks."

"You're a good man, Logan. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

Yeah, right.

-o0o-

A light tap on the door drags me out of a deep, dreamless sleep. 'Ro's fresh scent carries on the draft squeezing under the door.

"Logan, are you there?"

"Yeah," I reply blearily, dragging myself off the bed. "Just hold on a second will ya?"

Decorum demands I make myself decent so I slide on a pair of sweats before opening the door. I know I look dishevelled from sleep but 'Ro's a big girl. I'm pretty certain she can handle half naked and dishevelled. She's cradling a bag in her arms. From the smell, she's decided to get me a bit of everything again. Why not? Variety is the spice of life ain't it?

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were sleeping." She's staring at my chest and shoulders, giving them and appraisal. Wonder if she likes what she sees?

"'S'okay. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing I've put it on the grocery bill." She hands me the bag.

"Thanks," I say, taking it. It's blood temperature from her body heat.

She turns to go and then stops. "Kurt and I were planning to rent a film and order pizza this evening. You're welcome to join us if you like."

I look at her, trying not to imagine playing gooseberry to a hot goddess and a giant Smurf. Managing a smile I hope don't look too feeble I say, "Thanks but I got plans for tonight. Maybe another time." Around about the time Hell freezes over.

"Sure Logan." Her own lips stretch into a warm smile and then turns away and leaves. I watch her hips sway as she walks down the hall. Classy. Real classy.

The clock tells me it's a little after three so I have some time on my hands. Bag tucked under my arm I head for the bathroom. I wanna smell good for Jessie.

Exiting the bathroom a short time later I accidentally dislodge my jacket from the chair's backrest while vigorously towelling myself dry. The cell phone slips from the pocket and hits the floor with a muffled thump. I'd forgotten I still had it.

Flicking it open I key in Jessie's number. No need to look at the card she gave me, I got the number memorised already.

"Hello? This is Jessica Commeau speaking." Her voice sounds distant (well duh!) and stretched thin.

"Jessie? It's me, Logan."

"Hey, Logan. I wondered if you were going to give me a call."

"We still okay for later?" Hell, that makes me sound so fucking desperate.

"Sure. Been looking forward to it all day."

"I got a proposal for ya."

There's a sudden silence on the other end. "Isn't this a bit sudden? We've only just met."

She's joking, right? "Uh…" What the fuck do I say for Chrissake?

I can hear her giggling. "Relax, Wild Man. Just a bit of gallows humour."

Wild Man? "Uh, yeah. Okay." Shit! How dumb do I sound?

"So, a proposal, huh?"

"Yeah. But there's some things ya need to know first."

"Whoa! This sounds serious. Wanna lay it on me?" Ain't the only thing I wanna lay on ya sweetheart.

"I don't wanna discuss it on the phone, darlin'." Don't wanna risk ya slamming yer handset down on me when I tell you what I am.

"Has this got to do with the Bayou Lady?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Then I suppose this intriguing proposal of yours will just have to keep until later." I can hear her breathing, hear the slight breathlessness in her voice. She's pleased I'm calling. And relieved too. Perhaps she thought I wouldn't.

I hate phones. Fucking things are so impersonal. "Gotta go now. See ya in a couple of hours 'kay?"

"Looking forward to it, Logan."

I hear the click as she disconnects. She wants to see me again. She really, honest to God, wants to see me again.

I need a smoke so I head for the terrace facing the basketball court. It's another lovely day so, stogie in hand, I sprawl on a bench, basking in the warm spring sunshine spilling across the terrace. Some of the kids are playing basketball and I witness some very creative fouls. I guess Charlie's sense of fair play doesn't rub off too well on them. Can't say that ain't a good thing. You need an edge to survive in this crappy world.

Moira approaches along the terrace. She's dressed in jeans, a white blouse and loafers. The sun gleams off her coppery hair and lends a complimentary glow to her smiling face. She's a good person and one that don't take any shit. I've known her less than thirty six hours and already I have respect for her. That don't come easily. And now I understand why she is fighting so hard to give Rahne a chance.

She's a woman with fire in her heart. Jeannie had that same fire.

"D'yeh mind if I join yeh?"

I edge along the bench making room for Moira to sit down.

She sinks down gracefully, crossing her feet. "I wannae apologise fer yesterday…" she began.

"Why? Ya ain't done anything to be sorry for." I suck in lungful of cigar smoke and exhale slowly. On the basketball court one of the kids has just morphed his team's hoop into a giant Ronald McDonald and stymied a goal. I chuckle at the sounds of heated protest.

"Rahne enjoyed hersel' yesterday afternoon."

I'll bet she did. "I hope that was after she kicked me in the balls and cooled off in the fountain."

"Aye. Rogue an' yersel' taught her how to relax an' play a game despite what the bairn did and I respect that."

"Rahne's a good kid." Just like Rogue. Fuck, where did that come from?

"Is that a generalisation or a personal observation?"

"Both."

The light breeze ruffles Moira's hair and she brushes it from her face. "Has it made a difference to yer earlier decision?."

"Maybe."

Moira lets out a sigh. "At least that nae a no."

I take a final drag of the cigar and grind the butt into the stone beneath my foot. In a moment of madness that I'm sure I'm gonna regret, I decide to help her.

"I'm willing to give it a shot but I got to do it my way. No damn curriculum. Just take it one day at a time, deal with her episodes as they arise. I'll talk to the kid. I'll show her what her enhanced senses can do. If she can hack taking on and taming the wolf, I'll teach her how. If she wants to train her senses but keep her human side in overall control, something I'm familiar with, I'll take it as far as it can go. If she can't or won't handle it then it's over."

Moira smiles and nods her head. "Thank yeh Logan. Thank yeh for giving her the chance."

"Don't thank me yet," I mutter darkly.

The smile lighting up Moira's face has more output than the sun. I can almost taste the relief emanating from her. I only hope I can live up to the responsibility she's placing in my hands.

"When would yeh like to begin her instruction?"

"Lemme see." I cast my gaze over the basketball court as if lost in thought. In truth, I'm watching the retaliation of the opposing team as a hoop wilts like melting plastic. Nothing like levelling the odds. "My appointments diary is pretty full but I guess I got a window during lunch tomorrow or maybe for an hour after dinner. Lunchtime is preferable." Wanna keep the evening open for Jessie I she still wants me after tonight.

"Yeh don't waste time do yeh laddie."

I laugh. "You're the second person to accuse me of that today. If Rahne's comfortable with my company I'll take her out on the estate on Sunday morning. Make sure she's dressed for the outdoors."

"I will. Where d'yeh want the bairn tae wait fer yeh tomorrow?"

"The library. There'll be other kids in there so she'll feel safe as we talk."

"I'll let her know." Moira falls silent. She looks lost in thought.

"It's gonna rain tonight." I observe.

Moira studies the flawless blue arch of the sky. Not a cloud in sight. "Rain? Are yeh sure? The weather report says it's gonnae to be fine until tomorrow."

"Storm's coming. I can smell it on the breeze."

"Ah."

She stands, leans over me, takes my face in her hands and plants a kiss on my forehead. Moira ain't hitting on me, her scent tells me that much.

"What's that for?"

"It's an old Scottish custom. It means we part as friends."

"We friends, Moira?"

"Beneath yer don't give a fuck exterior, Logan, lies a very remarkable and noble man. Charles senses it and I sense it too. Yes, we are friends."

Coming from Moira's mouth the expletive is unexpected. As for the remarkable and noble bullshit, I guess she needs to get to know me better. I'm a total bastard and the first to admit it. What's noble about a guy with a healing factor and adamantium laced skeleton beating cage fodder to a pulp?

I haul my carcass off the bench.

"Later."

I've made a friend. Looks like it's my day for good things. Without another word I turn and walk away.

**Love it or loathe it, please leave a review. Believe it or not, what you think really does matter to me. :0)**


	11. Dark Night of the Soul

**Disclaimer: **You've heard it beforeMaggie and Jessica are mine. The others ain't. Life continues to be a bitch that way.

I managed to squeeze in this somewhat shorter than I originally intended chapter because I'm off on holiday in a few days and I won't be returning until mid August. Because I'm such a vicious cuss I've left it on a cliffie. I'll try to write while I'm away so I'll have something to post on my return but where I'm going there's no internet access so I'm not going to be able to post anything or read my emails so don't panic it you try to contact me and don't get a reply. I will get back to you – eventually.

Thanks to **Dee** (MidLifeCrisis), **dayrunner 145**, and **Taluliaka**, and **firefly750 (LMAO firefly)** for their encouraging reviews.

**Chapter 11: Dark Night of the Soul **

"Two rib-eye steaks rare, fries, eggs over easy and sides," the waitress drones mechanically, a world-weary expression on her florid face. Guess working the graveyard shift in a twenty-four hour diner can put a crimp on anyone's job satisfaction, especially since she's probably still got at least six hours 'til the day staff arrive. Usually, I would expect the delicious aroma wafting off the plates to compensate for her ennui but not tonight. I manage to grunt a half-hearted thank you but it's lost beneath Jessie's more enthusiastic gratitude.

The waitress mumbles another well worn litany, "You're welcome. Just call if you need anything else."

Strands of Jessie's hair fall forwards as she unwraps her cutlery. Using her fingers to comb the hair from her face, she reveals the full glory of her swollen cheek and its spectacular purple and black bruise. No longer concealed by Jessie's honey tresses, the injury is painfully evident. The waitress's expression transforms from bored to grim and she casts me a venomous stare. Not liking the way the innocent get so easily convicted I shoot one even more venomous straight back at her. I didn't hurt Jessie so I don't give a fuck.

Jessie, aware of the waitress's tacit accusation cuts in with, "Thanks for the concern but the son of a bitch who did this went home with worse okay."

"If you say so, hon." Sauntering back to the counter the waitress perches her ample backside on a stool, picks up a magazine and begins to read.

"Food smells great," Jessie says as she impales a fry on her fork. I watch as her to moist lips envelope the food and she begins to munch with genuine relish. This girl has no use for rabbit food and low-carb crap and that's gratifying to see.

"'Sure does," I mutter.

The diner's clean, decorated in faux Fifties style kitsch, red vinyl and wall mounted neon signs advertising various beers. I've been here before. The food's damn good, affordable and there's plenty of it which is why I've bought Jessie here. There are two other couples enjoying meals but I deliberately picked to booth furthest from them. It's difficult to maintain privacy in a near empty room. Not enough din to drown out conversation.

My own appetite has been diminishing exponentially with the sense of anxiety that has been building in me all evening. Having eaten nothing since Maggie's monster sandwiches I should be attacking my steak like a starved man. It's bloody, just the way I like it and tender too and all I can do is stare at the fucking plate because my stomach is too tightly knotted to desire food. Problem is, my paranoia has been kicking up a stink all night. Nice girl from Virginia working in a rat pit bar in Salem Centre fulfils a prophecy spouted by some loony old woman when she meets my gaze across a crowded room. Jeezus! How fucking lame is that?

"So," Jessie manages to say around a mouthful of fries, "You've been Mister Dark and Brooding all evening. You want to finally come clean about what's bothering you, Heathcliff, or shall we play Twenty Questions?"

She's beautiful, ain't no denying that. I'm still scorched from the sexual chemistry that erupted between us last night and I can feel her rampant pheromones going to work on me right this minute, irresistible as a siren's call and potent as the purest moonshine. But her turning up in Westchester, at this time, is too much of a coincidence for me to ignore. She's just too good to be true.

The motherfuckers who ripped my body apart and erased my memories know where I am. They'll want payback for Alkali Lake. Setting a bitch in heat before a lone wolf with enhanced senses and a sex drive the size of Texas is one hell of a honey trap. Last night I threw caution to the wind, allowed my brain to migrate to my dick. Problem is, my brain likes being on vacation and refuses to go home making it difficult for me to think straight in her presence.

Paranoia aside, I fail to detect the smallest whiff of deception on her and no one is that good at hidings such things from me. Body chemistry will give away even the most accomplished liar every time. Having this edge makes me almost unbeatable at poker. I always know when to fold or when a player is bluffing. But this is different. Jessie ain't bluffing and I don't wanna fold. I want to be with her and to do that I need to lay my cards on the table, the ones I'm prepared to deal anyway.

Part of me, the don't give a fuck hardass part, wishes I hadn't decided on this course of action. What the fuck was I thinking? What if she hates mutants? Ain't it better to enjoy her company while it lasts? Just take what I can get and then run? The old cage fighting Logan would. He'd amuse himself and then walk away without a second glance, too afraid to see if she was doing the same and terrified in case she wasn't. With the conflict and paranoia raging inside my head I find I can't quite bring myself to look Jessie in the eye so I pick at the food on my plate.

"Of course," she continues when my reply isn't forthcoming, "Other than in the biblical sense, we barely know one another so you would be within your rights to tell me to go fuck myself. Of course, it's much more fun to do it with a friend." She grins, making a joke of my caginess to put me at my ease. Wish to hell there was an easy way to deal with this.

Ain't gonna let my pathological suspicion of people ruin what might be a wonderful relationship. If she can't handle me being a mutant then best to let her go. If she turns out to be bait I'll deal with the situation in my own way.

Keeping my voice low so as not to be overheard I tell her, "You're an amazing woman, Jessie. I really want to get to know you better but there are some things ya need to know about me first…I mean before…"

I falter, lost for words. The psychotic demon inside my head rages, it doesn't understand that I'm sick and tired of running. Sick to the bottom of my empty, aching heart of being alone.

"Before what, Logan? Is there someone else? God, you're not married are you?"

I know she checked me for a wedding ring last night but the lack of one means squat. It's strangely gratifying to feel her distress at the prospect of me being attached. I can see it in her eyes, in her slightly down turned lips, in her stiffening posture.

"No," I assure her. But it's false assurance. For all I know I got a family somewhere sitting at home and wondering what the hell happened to me. But I ain't come across any milk cartons with my face plastered on 'em so I reckon I'm entitled to call my denial plausible.

"On the run?"

That's a good one. I've been running away from my nightmares and the fuckers who gave them to me for fifteen years. I fight back an irrational urge to run right now, get as far the hell away from her as I can.

"Not in the way you think." I fall silent, desperate to utter words that are disinclined to be spoken.

"Logan? If you're not comfortable about this it can wait for another time."

It's gotta be said and the longer I leave it the harder it will become. Drawing a deep breath I dive in head first. "What I'm gonna say ain't pretty. When I explain what I am and ya feel ya gotta get the hell away from me I ain't gonna hold it against ya."

Exasperated, she rolls her eyes. "For chrissake Logan, just tell me already."

"I'm a mutant." That wasn't so bad. I study her, trying to gauge her reaction.

She looks at me, a strange expression on her face that seems to be a mixture of annoyance and relief. At least she ain't stabbing me in the face with her fork and running out the door. My inner Logan's screaming has reached fever pitch. Exposing what I am to a human, revealing a genetic heritage that most humans consider abhorrent, is alien to me. My infatuation for her has left me vulnerable in a way I would never have allowed before coming to Westchester. I gotta be losing what's left of my shattered mind.

"That's it?" she asks, her eyebrows arched in surprise. "That's what's been bothering you all night?" She laughs though not unkindly and the skin around her blue eyes crinkles with honest humour.

"Well obviously it bothers me more than it does you," I snap, more than a little flummoxed by her offhand reaction.

She shakes her head sadly. "Logan, I suspected as much when I climbed into your Jeep last night."

"You did?"

"Gimme some credit will you? Your shirt and jeans were soaked in way too much blood to pass off as someone else's nosebleed. The gore dripping from the blade you lodged in the ceiling was an indicator but what really gave the game away was when I pulled your clothes out of my washer/dryer this morning. There was a knife hole in the shirt and I reckon it didn't spontaneously appear. My guess is, you can heal almost instantaneously. That's a useful mutation to have especially for someone who thinks nothing about taking on a barful of pissed off badasses."

Ya don't know the half of it darlin'. "Me being a mutant doesn't bother you then?"

"How could it when my twin brother is a mutant too?"

She has a mutant twin? But Jessie ain't a mutant, of that I'm certain.

"Give me your hand."

She complies without question and I turn it palm upwards, all but burying my face in it as I sniff deeply. Her pulse quickens to my touch and I can feel heat flush her skin. Filtering out the artificial smells of her perfume, toiletries and the stink from an evening spent working at the Auger, I isolate her natural essence and let the animal part of my brain analyse it, break it down into its chemical components. There it is; elusive but unmistakeable. I kiss her wrist.

"Logan, what are you doing?"

"You're X Factor positive," I announce keeping my voice neutral and releasing my grasp.

Pulling her hand away she gasps, "How…how can you possibly know that?"

"I can smell your latency. The healing factor is only part of my mutation. I got heightened senses keener than any animal."

Blue eyes open wide she says, "Whoa, that's amazing." Bewilderment quickly displaces amazement. "But Logan, if your nose is so sensitive, how can you stand living in a town or a city? It must be hell on earth for you breathing in all that pollution."

"I don't like it but ya learn to filter stuff out." How do I explain the rest? "That ain't all."

The food has been forgotten, her attention riveted on me. "Go on."

"Some mutants are telepathic, some can move things with their minds, others can manipulate matter or the elements and some can teleport. My own powers are more intrinsic. I'm a feral. I got the instincts and sometimes the temperament of an animal. I also got claws."

"Feral?"

"There are times when I'm more animal than human. I'm not safe to be around when that happens."

Her heartbeat quickens but there's no fear. She is frowning though, her arched eyebrows creasing into lines of puzzlement. "What, it's like a full moon thing? Like a werewolf?"

"No. I don't physically transform and it don't go in regular cycles. I'm usually in control but there are times when it…slips free or I'm forced to release it and the animal takes over. I suffer from berserker rages triggered by either extreme pain or emotional duress."

"Berserker? You mean like a Viking?"

"I suppose."

"I'd better not piss you off then." She smiles but this time the humour ain't so apparent. "The wolf that walks like a man. That's what went through my mind the first time I laid eyes on you."

"Huh?"

"Like in the Crocodile Dundee film."

"Oh, right." I haven't clue one what the fuck she's talking about but I ain't gonna let it distract me. "There's worse, Jessie. I got brain-wiped. I have no memory of my existence prior to nineteen eighty nine. I've no idea who I am, how old I am or where I come from, although the general consensus is that I'm probably Canadian."

I see some sort of realisation dawn on her face. "That's why you're just Logan," she says, harking back to the conversation we had this morning.

"Just Logan. Yeah. I ain't even certain me and that name are mutually exclusive. All I know is I woke up naked in a snowdrift somewhere in British Columbia with that name bouncing around inside my skull." I ain't mentioning the fact I was also covered in the dried blood of many different people at the time. She don't need the unexpurgated version. "I also woke up with these." Concealing my left hand inside my jacket I spring my claws. "Adamantium, strongest metal known."

Jessie's mouth falls open in an O of shock. "Oh my God. Who would do such a thing?"

Sheathing the claws I continue relentlessly, "I got more of this crap molecularly bonded to my skeleton. Some inhuman fuckwads tore my body apart and coated my bones with more than a hundred pounds of this unbreakable shit."

Her gaze fastens on the thin lines of blood where the blades emerged. "Isn't freeing your claws painful?"

"Hurts like fuck. The blades slice through muscle and flesh every time I pop 'em. If it wasn't for the healing factor it's possible I would bleed out like a son of a bitch.

"That's appalling. Have you reported this to the authorities?"

The laughter that emerges is harsh, devoid of any humour. "Which authorities are those, Jessie? The government sanctioned black project who fucked me over royally or the government paymasters who sanction black projects like this one with Christ knows how many billions of taxpayers dollars?"

She's frightened now but for me rather than of me. Angry too. "But why would anyone do something so…so heartless and cruel."

"To forge me into a weapon designed to kill my own kind. They ripped away everything I was and now I got a hole in my head wider and deeper than the Jersey Tunnel. Somehow I managed to escape but they left me more animal than man and I've been running ever since in case they find me again."

"But you've stopped running now?"

"Yeah," I reply, surprised that it's true.

"Good."

"Why good?"

"Because I don't plan on losing you anytime soon." The expression on her face tells me she means business.

"How can you say that, ya barely know me?"

"And you barely know me so why are you telling me this?" she counters, staring intently into my eyes. "You feel it too, don't you? That we're meant to be together."

"Are we?" Those two words fall between us like an impenetrable barrier.

Dropping her gaze to her plate she picks up her knife and fork. "Food's going cold." I get the distinct impression she's biting back her words. There seems to be the slightest hint of tears in her eyes. I don't wanna hurt her.

Hurt her! An awful truth hits me hard, knocking me sick. "I don't wanna see ya get hurt, darlin'. The world I live in is a real shitty place. I got some pretty nasty enemies who wouldn't think twice at trying to get to me through you. I'm too dangerous for you to associate with. Maybe it's best that I leave now." The thought of someone like Stryker or Magneto using her as bait sends an arctic chill down my spine.

"Maybe you should just shut up and eat," she replies, cutting into her steak, her expression blank. "You can reason your way out of this as much as you want but I know in here," she touches her forehead, "and in here," she touches her heart, "that you and I are one soul. I'm a big girl, Logan. I've been taking care of myself for a long time. Let me decide whether or not I want to be around you."

"Ya not listening, Jessie. Being associated with me might make ya a target."

"And the sky might fall and bury us all ass deep in magic moon dust," she returns.

"This ain't no joking matter, kid."

"I'm sure it isn't. And don't call me kid. Is it whatever you do when your not drinking or brawling that generates such misgivings over my welfare?

What is it that I do? Wilderness bum, prize-fighter, hard drinker, kicker of nasty mutant ass? Revenge killing? Mentoring a teenage werewolf? Being the world's biggest asshole?

"I…yeah, it is."

She picks up on my hesitancy. "But you can't tell me because then you'll have to kill me, right?"

"Nah! I suppose ya could say I'm a security consultant and attitude adjuster." I manage a dry chuckle. "Yer one hell of a woman, ya know that?"

She smiles. "I do now."

"Mind if we change the subject?"

"Sure."

"So," I begin tentatively, finally taking an interest in my own food. "What's you're story?"

"Well, I hail from the l'il old historic town of Keswick, Virginia. Dad runs his own business designing and installing heating and ventilation systems. Mom teaches English in junior high. My brother, is a cancer specialist at Northeastern Vermont Hospital, Washington. With his mutation he couldn't possibly have done anything else."

"What's his power?"

"He has the ability to touch someone and diagnose any medical condition they may be suffering from. His diagnosis rate so far is one hundred percent accurate."

"Must save a lot of lives." I can smell sickness and disease. It's not something I'd like to work with though.

"I like to think he does. His gift is nothing short of a awesome." Ain't gonna argue with that. Far better to mend people than break them.

"How about you, What did you do before you tapped Sol for a job?"

"Up until three months ago I was a Navy Lieutenant. I've got over nine thousand hours logged flying Seahawks."

"You're a helicopter pilot? Why ain'tcha flying 'em any more?" That's the sort of job people dream about. Why the fuck did she give it up? Was she grounded or something?

Her faced reddens. "I up and quit."

It ain't embarrassment that's flowing off of her. It's red full on rage. "Ya don't strike me as a quitter, kid."

"I fell in love with the wrong man, a superior officer. When we were found out I discovered he loved his career more than he loved me. The rat accused me of sexually harassing him and blackmailing him to sleep with me to save his own neck. Everyone knew that was a crock of shit but it was his word against mine and he was the son of an admiral, fourth generation Navy. I was pressured into resigning to spare the Navy the embarrassment of hauling my ass up on an Article 32."

So she's running away because some fucking micro-dick moron set her up when he got caught with his fingers in the candy jar. She probably dodged the pre court-martial investigation not only to protect the ass of the rat bastard who dumped her like hot shit but also because the US military is fundamentally sensitive about the sexual peccadilloes of female officers being splashed across the media. Aw, what the hell do I know? Am I an expert 'coz I caught a few episodes of JAG?

"Why didn'tcha fight it? Ya shouldn't have let the rat bastard get away with it."

The misery on her face twists my gut. "I couldn't stomach the thought of the inevitable media feeding frenzy. Besides, my parents are staunch Catholics. I didn't want to bring shame on them."

I gotta respect that even if I thinks it's stupid ideal to live up to. "Westchester's quite a ways from Keswick, Virginia. What'cha doing here?"

"Looking for a job. Oconus Logistics is in town recruiting ex-military personnel and I'm sort of hoping they need a good helicopter pilot. I had an interview last week. If I'm acceptable and receive the go ahead I need to move out fast."

Ex-military? Hitch told me he was a medically discharged marine. Jessie is ex-navy and she's an exotic fish out of water working for a slimeball like Sal. Looks like my crack about a convention wasn't that wide of the mark after all. Ah, fuck. OCONUS. It's a military acronym for Outside CONtinental US. Dunno how I know that, never served in the military as far as I know.

Christ on a pogo stick. "Jessie, ya not trying to tell me you're a merc are ya?"

"Not exactly. OL is a civilian contractor for the Pentagon. They supply advisors, security personnel, keep the supply lines open in war zones and for overseas bases. If they want me I'll be on my way to wherever pretty soon."

And I thought her being around me was fucking dangerous.

"What about a civilian aviation outfit? Ain't any of them needing a Navy trained pilot? I'd have thought they'd be queuing up ta get their mitts on ya."

"Hasn't happened. I get interviews and then nada. It's like I'm poison or something."

"You could end up in Iraq or Afghanistan. Al-Qaeda and Mujahideen insurgents don't distinguish between male or female, military or civilian. To them we're all fucking targets."

"It's the risk I took when I entered the Naval Academy. The difference is, OL pay more and I sign up for however long I need the job. I used the last of my cash to pay a month's rent on my apartment. Sal was good enough to give me a job to get me by but what I earn at the Auger ain't gonna cover the rent and pay all the other bills. I need a job, Logan. Without money I face trailing all the way back to Virginia and explaining to my parents how their little girl managed to crap out."

"Wouldn't Virginia be better than getting a bird shot out from under ya by some lucky strike camel herder?"

"Would that bother you?"

"What do you think?" A though struck me. "Ya say ya want to be with me yet yer talking about hauling yer ass out to the Middle East. That don't make much sense."

"Do I have a choice?" The timbre of her voice tells me she might not be that hard to convince.

"Actually, yeah you do."

"Oh?"

"Yer a karate black belt. How d'ya feel about teaching martial arts and self defence at a private school?"

Looking taken aback she asks, "What sort of school has martial arts on its curriculum?"

"The sort that made the national news a few weeks back."

That's got her thinking. Doesn't take her long to make the connection. "The one that was under investigation? The school for training mutant terrorists?"

"It wasn't under investigation and there ain't no terrorists, just a bunch of school kids who are a bit out of the ordinary. We were attacked by a hostile force lead by a bastard called Stryker who had a mandate issued by the fucking President stuffed in his wallet. Raiding a terrorist stronghold was the excuse he used to get his hands on some radical technology he needed to commit mutant genocide.

"They came in helicopters and armed to the teeth with explosives and live rounds. Some of the kids got tranquilised and taken to a secret government facility in Canada. Didn't know it at the time but Stryker had also put the snatch on Charlie Xavier, the headmaster and one of his senior staff. They ended up in Canada too and subjected to mind control. It turned out to be the same facility I got given my claws and reinforced skeleton."

"I thought you said you didn't remember anything prior to waking up in the snow."

"I have nightmares, flashbacks of the things they did to me. I helped rescue the captives. When I found the lab they tortured me in, I recognised it straight away." And then Jeanie died. I feel my heart constrict and all the pain floods back.

Shock drains the colour from her face. "Yours has got to be the worst case of Dark Night of the Soul I've ever come across."

"Ya think they pumped me full of molten metal and ripped my head apart so I could find God?" That comes out more harshly than I intend. She reacts like I've struck her.

Jessie shakes her head vehemently. "Of course not. I'm just trying to understand and put into words the living hell you've suffered since this happened."

"There ain't any fucking words for it, darlin'." I shove the plate away, unable to eat a single bite. Rage is trickling into my head and I can feel it beginning to seep through my entire being like hot plasma.

"I'm so sorry, Logan."

My voice drops lower, becomes controlled and edged with hostility she doesn't really deserve. "I don't want any fucking pity. Not from you. Not from anyone." The walls of the diner are closing in on me. I need to get out, get away. The memory of Alkali Lake is still too raw. And Jeanie… Oh God! The abyss is opening up inside me again. All those nightmare emotions are welling up in me. I can't stop them.

"And I'm not offering any. I was simply apologising for raking up something that obviously causes you pain."

The distress in her voice has been put there by me. I've misjudged her intentions. I've snapped at her like I'm a terrier with a thistle up its ass. She's the one good thing that's happened to me since Jeanie died and I'm in danger of pushing her away 'coz I'm too fucking weak to rein in my anger and paranoia.

"You didn't. I did. I'm sorry for coming on like a prize asshole." Fuck. If I'm apologising I must be in a bad way.

She takes my hands in hers and squeezes them tenderly. Her touch sends a frisson along my nerves and into my brain. "Apology accepted. As are your credentials."

Huh? What credentials? "What do you mean?"

"It means, lover, that whatever your reasons for being dark and brooding, I'm not letting a predestined hunk like you walk away without a fight. You know I'm good for it." Her smile is wicked sexy. "Let's go home."

It's just the tonic my miserable ass needs. I find my appetite's returning but not for food. "I'll get the check."

-o0o-

Bathed in post-coital sweat we lie in each others arms, our legs entangled. The taut muscles in my belly pulse to the rhythm of my pounding heartbeat, sending ecstatic aftershocks through my body. The intensity of my release is like nothing I've ever experienced before. It felt like I was pouring my soul into Jessie, that somehow our life forces joined and became a larger, glorious whole. Before Jessie, having sex was a sordid if enjoyable pastime, ultimately meaningless. Now it's been transcended into something…I have no words to describe.

Jessie's breathing is slow and even, she's sleeping, cradled in my arms, her head on my chest. Nuzzling her hair with my lips I hold her tightly to me, almost afraid that she'll evaporate like mist in the sun. The heavy, slightly salty musk of sex hangs in the air. Mixed with the tangs of sweat and satiation it's a heady mixture but I'm beyond stimulation right now. Gently, so as not to wake her, I nuzzle her hair with my cheek and stroke her face, tracing the delicate contours with my fingers. As I touch her lips she stirs and I can feel her smile in her sleep. There's no way I'm gonna fuck this woman and walk away. She's mine. For as long as she wants me. With that startling thought rattling in my brain I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

-o0o-

The storm hit Westchester County in the early hours of the morning bringing with it torrential rain and high winds. The wipers can't cope with the volume of water obscuring the windscreen and the roads in low lying areas are beginning to flood. The jeep can cope with the water but fallen trees are a serious problem. Although I haven't had any close shaves, I've been forced to backtrack twice and take a more circuitous route along lesser known back roads to reach the school. Already the journey has taken me twice as long as normal. And I am so fucking hungry I could eat my own jacket. I dunno which is worse, the howling of the wind or the growling of my stomach. Maggie's sandwiches are nothing but a distant memory and breakfast was the last thing on mine or Jessie's mind this morning. The truth is, we didn't want to waste time eating. If it hadn't been for Rahne, I probably would've stayed with Jessie and happily died of a combination of ecstasy, exhaustion and starvation.

Finally I find a way onto Graymalkin Lane and arrive at the mansion's gate without any more diversions. Responding to the electronic signal, the gates swing open and I drive though, heading for the garage. Checking my watch I find it's already half past twelve. I'm late. Fuck it! No time to park the Jeep in the garage. Instead I opt for driving up to the main wing of the school and leaving the Jeep near the porch until later. Climbing out of the cab the rain, whipped into a solid wall of water by the gale, soaks me in less than the time it takes to run the few feet to the shelter of the large porch. As expected, the front door is unlocked so I slip inside, grateful to be out of the weather. Shaking off as much water as I can I head for the library.

Rahne is there, sitting in a chair facing the door, red head bowed over a book. There're a few other kids around, some working, some reading but none I really know.

"Hey, Rahne," I say softly as I pad up to her. My wet jeans chafe my skin and I wish I'd had the opportunity to change into dry clothes but I reckon I can live with it. It ain't like it's the first time I've ever been cold and wet. Living in Westchester is turning me into a wuss.

She looks up from her book. "You're late," she accuses.

"The wind's brought a few trees down. I had to take the long way back here." Why the hell am I justifying myself to a kid?

"Oh. I didnae know yeh'd gone out."

I sit in a chair opposite to her, taking care not to make any sudden moves that might startle her. "What'cha reading?"

"The latest Harry Potter. Moira bought it for me on Saturday."

"Any good?"

"Aye."

"Wanna put it away while be talk?"

Rahne closes the book and stuffs it down the side of the chair. She takes her time, as if she's reluctant to engage in any meaningful conversation. I don't sense fear coming from her but she's wary, there's anxiety too. I suppose it's to be expected. After all, the last time we met I threw her into the fountain.

I break the awkward silence. "I know the male of the species ain't exactly flavour of the month with ya, kid, but ya need to understand that I ain't gonna hurt ya. I'm here to help. Get the picture?"

Rahne nods her head slowly, her green eyes unblinking, never leaving my face. She's suspicious of my motives, that much is clear. It's gonna take more than words to win her trust.

"Ya know what anger and humour smell like?"

"Aye. I can smell what people are feeling."

"Good. Then yer'll know I ain't posing a threat to ya. Take a sniff."

Rahne's nostrils flare as she tests the air, sucking in the subtle odours my body is producing. Without warning she leaps to her feet, snarling and transforming instantly. The hate she's projecting hits me like a battering ram.

"Ya smell just like _him!_" she howls and then she's on me, sinking her teeth into my arm and biting bone deep. Shaking her head violently she shreds flesh until her teeth, red with gore, grate on metal, like a dog worrying a bone. What the fuck did I do?

"Get out," I manage to yell to the kids in the room. I can hear screams and the sound of running feet.

Seizing Rahne by the scruff on the neck and exerting a force that stops short of injurious, I try to pull her free of my mangled arm. My grip's gotta be hurting her but it doesn't persuade her to release her grip.

"Rahne! What the fuck has gotten in to ya, kid," I snarl through teeth clenched tightly shut with agony. Too late I realise that seizing her neck is a serious tactical error. With both hands occupied I leave myself open to her wickedly sharp claws. She brings them to bear and I feel a ragged, searing pain as she rakes them across the side of my neck and jaw. Skin and muscle tears and a hot surge of blood pulses almost explosively outwards, soaking my jacket and shirt in a sticky, scarlet warmth. It spatters her fur, her muzzle and everything else within reach. She must have ruptured my carotid artery. Miraculously the pressure of her jaws slacken and I tear my arm free and kick her hard in the gut, putting distance between us. She goes down yelping in pain but she recovers fast and I follow up with a punch to the head, trying to contain my own rage enough to render her unconscious and not crush her skull. As my fist connects her head lolls to one side and suddenly I'm looking at a teenage girl lying at my feet. She's as pale as a day old corpse but I can see her chest rising and falling.

The blood is still gushing and I slap the hand of my uninjured hand to the wound in an attempt to apply pressure and stanch the bleeding. I dunno if it's possible for me to bleed to death but I ain't planning on finding out. The plan is head for the med-lab so I stagger to the doorway on legs that seem to have turned to rubber. I can't see so well through the mist that seems to be fogging my vision and I collide with something rushing through the doorway. Something warm that smells suspiciously of Summers.

"Logan, what the hell…oh, God."

I feel hands gripping me, holding me upright but to no avail. As my legs buckle I managed to gasp out, "I think I hurt Rahne," before collapsing.

From a long way away I hear Summers yelling for help and I feel new pressure being applied to my neck wound. The world seems to be collapsing in on me, shrinking and spiralling as my vision narrows to a tiny pinprick of brightness. I feel like I'm falling down a bottomless well As I watch the light recede I wonder if this is what dying is like. Nothing to fear. You just drift away.

The light blinks out and darkness folds in on me, taking away the pain and everything else. My last conscious thought is – I hope I didn't kill her.

**Love it or loathe it, please leave a review. Believe it or not, what you think really does matter to me. :0)**


	12. A Shock to the System

**Disclaimer: **Maggie and Jessica are mine. I'm working on a diabolical plot to make the rest mine, all mine!

Apologies for this chapter being so long in the making. The lack of opportunity to write while I was away, coupled with a string of domestic distractions contrived to delay my return to the keyboard. That and the fact I fell into yet another pit of writers block slugs. Thankfully **Dee **(MidLifeCrisi) was on hand once again to haul my sorry ass to safety. Great catch Dee:0)

Thanks to **JoeGood2003,** **Dee** (MidLifeCrisis), **Dr. Nat** **dayrunner 145**, **Taluliaka**, **firefly750, Merilyneb, IYLuvr200 **and **A Reader** for their encouraging reviews.

**On a more serious note, my prayers go out to the people of New Orleans and all the souls whose lives have been affected by Hurricane Katrina. The devastation left in the path of this monster of nature has stunned the world.**

**Chapter 12: A Shock to the System**

There are ghosts in the darkness. I don't believe in ghosts but that don't stop the bastards talking to me. Their susurrus echoes faintly just beyond the range of my hearing. I can sense they're frantic; afraid. What the fuck have ghosts got to be frightened of? Ain't they supposed to be the ones doing the scaring? I wish they'd shut the fuck up and leave me be.

_Logan._

Well waddaya know? One of 'em knows my name. I can't decide if that's a good or a bad thing so I ignore it in the hope it'll get bored and go haunt someone else.

_Logan!_

My name carries like an urgent whisper blown on the wind, filling the darkness and disturbing my peace. Casper can't take a subtle hint so it's time for a more direct approach.

Fuck off!

_C'mon big fella, give me a sign here._

The words form an angry, persistent buzz in my ears. You wanna sign? I gotta sign for ya. In the darkness I flip my invisible tormentor Shroedinger's finger.

Now go the fuck away will ya?

Somewhere beyond the darkness I can hear another noise, a broken sigh. Is someone crying? Could be someone laughing. I can't be sure. The sound gradually drifts away.

Times passes, I think, but here in the darkness there's no way of telling. It's so peaceful here; no fear, no pain. Nothing.

No, that's no longer true.

Tendrils of pain infect the darkness, making it convulse, bringing unwanted intrusions from outside. A ravening beast lurks in the brightening shadows, poised to sink its brutal talons into me, to claim me for it's own. It stinks of something that has dogged my every footstep for fifteen years. The rank smell of fear.

Nightmare grips me but it's evolved; transcended; moved on. Gone are the semi lucid flashbacks of immersion tanks and vague figures in bio-hazard suits injecting me with molten hatred. Someone's decided to up the ante and coat my nerve endings in acid, strip them raw and inject them with molten metal too. Wish that was all but it ain't. There's a vicious twist to this new avenue of pain being explored. Pressure envelopes my rib cage like a vice, crushing the air from my lungs, sending pain stabbing through my chest like spear thrusts. Short of dropping a mountain on my head, and maybe not even then, this ain't supposed to be possible. How can it be happening? Has some perverted fucker discovered a way to soften adamantium and is running trials by pureeing the life outta me?

Lungs are on fire, starved of oxygen; struggling to breathe. Airways're blocked. Something's covering my nose and mouth, something that reeks of plastic and worse. I'm suffocating. Gotta get it off 'coz even I can die of asphyxiation. Don't wanna die. Not helpless like this. Not even in a nightmare.

Panic triggers a threat response and the adrenaline boost burns through my arteries and adds fuel to the flames already consuming me. Instead of the anticipated surge in strength my head spins as the constriction in my chest tightens making it even harder to breath. As nightmares go this bugger is off the scale. The claws spring smoothly from their housing, bringing with them a more familiar, acceptable pain and I anticipate the welcome intrusion of reality. What I experience is warm blood welling up and spilling across both sets of knuckles. Too much of it. The agony isn't subsiding. This ain't no nightmare. It's fucking real.

I'm back in the hands of my torturers!

A disembodied female voice announces, "Damn. We've got V-tach. Moira I need thirty milligrams of lidocaine, stat."

"So much? Is that wise?" Second voice's female too but this one's got a strange, lilting accent. They're importing sadists now?

"How the hell should I know? Nothing about this guy is straightforward. Just do as I ask. Shit, what's he doing?"

Stupid bitches forgot to strap me down. Nothing works right and my arms feel like a couple of tons of lead are attached to 'em. Only by a supreme force of will can I make them move. The exertion makes breathing worse. Feels like I'm trying to breathe wet concrete. Gotta get this thing off of my face. Fingers the size of bed rolls finally rip away the suffocating plastic and it falls, clattering on some nearby surface. The effort's almost too much and I let my arms fall to my side as the frenzied beating of my heart thunders inside my head and chest. Can't stay here. Can't let them see how helpless I am. Can't let them violate my mind and body again. Gotta be strong. Gotta move. Gotta get away from here. Gotta kill 'em if I can.

The accented voice says, "The laddie's waking up, hen."

"And he's unsheathed those blades. This job's complicated enough without having to play dodge the claws. I thought the Professor was guarding against that."

Eyes are open but I'm seeing only blurs of light and vague shadows that swim in and out of my field of vision. And I got the clinical stink of the laboratory in my nose now. Ain't the one I'm used to. That one plies at the bottom of a lake. But these places are all the fucking same, right? Mouth's dry like old twigs and ashes. Something's nagging at the back of my mind. An amorphous urgency that's battering away, demanding I sheath my claws. They're inside my head again. Forcing me to do things I ain't gonna.

"RRRrraggghhh…"

Throat's too constricted to articulate. Breathing's a serious problem and I suck down air in short, gasping pants. No strength to sit up I try and roll but my body refuses to obey me. I'm as weak and as vulnerable as a newborn. What the hell's going on? What's happened to my healing factor? What the fuck have they done to me? Whatever it is they ain't fucking doing it again. And why is it so damned hot in here? I gotta get out; gotta get away.

"Logan's mind has descended into a feral state. Charles is no longer able to elicit a rational response from him." There's fear in the lilting voice. Good.

"He's panicking, trying to roll off the table," the first voice announces brusquely. "If he dislodges the IVs and prevents us stabilising him we could be looking at another cardiac arrest. Maybe even a funeral."

Cardiac Arrest? Again? My fucking heart stopped beating?

Something pins my wrists down and I try to struggle free. Nightmare visions burst into horrific animation inside my head. Chemicals, laboratories and doctors add up to something I don't wanna be acquainted with no more. Hate doctors. Don't trust the motherfuckers. Doctors ripped me open, tortured me, destroyed my mind and poured molten metal on my bones. Gotta get out of here.

"Logan?" The weird accent again, pitched a little higher this time, broken somehow, as if her throat is raw. "Yer safe. Nae one can hurt yeh. Please sheath yer claws." She's the bitch pinning my wrists down. Sheath my claws? No fucking way!

"Grrrrahhh!" The growl comes out as a hoarse, almost imperceptible croak. Was that me? Can't be.

"We'll have to restrain him, Moira. I can't risk either of us being skewered."

"That's nae a good idea, hen. The laddie has a mortal fear o' being shackled."

"And I've got a mortal fear of being stabbed to death. If Charles can't control him then _we_ have to. He's not leaving us any choice."

Not gonna happen. Yer not having me at yer fucking mercy. I won't let ya. I'll kill ya first.

"Maggie's on her way down."

"What the hell can Maggie do? We don't have time for this, Moira."

"Maggie's an empath. She has the skill to reach Logan on a more primal level."

"If I don't get the lidocaine in him now her trip downstairs will be for nothing."

"Then do it, Cecilia."

"Not until his wrists are in restraints. If you won't do it I will. Hold him still."

I try to shake them off but all I achieve is a palsied trembling of my limbs as I feel leather cuffs being fastened around my wrists. The plastic smother is jammed over my face once more. That's when the animal breaks loose and coherent thought breaks down. Instinct and feral senses turn my surroundings into shrink wrap and everything goes crazy.

Suffocating. Life being crushed from me. Choking chemical smell then wildfire surges through my veins, flash burning everything in its path. Can't stop it.

Cornered.

Agonised.

Brutalised.

Terrified.

Helpless.

Lash out.

Kill the tormentors.

Body not responding.

Nothing works.

Stop the pain.

Stop the fear.

Stop everything.

Run and hide.

"Logan. It's Maggie."

Kill you.

_No threat._

Tear you. Rip you. Kill you.

_No threat._

Kill you?

_No threat._

Liar.

_Safe._

No. Pain. Fear. Trapped. Not safe. Liar!

_No threat. _

"Trust your instincts, Logan. Smell the truth."

_Safe. No threat._

Trust. You? Fear. Pain. _They_ are here. They are pain. They are fear. No trust.

_No threat._

"Trapped!"

"Not anymore. Your hands are free Logan."

_No threat. Safe._

Free? Yes!

"Safe? Free?" So tired.

"Yes, Logan."

Cool dampness on my face. Soothing. Feels good.

"That's it, pet. Relax. Let the animal go. I'm here now. You're safe."

"Maggie?"

"Yes, pet?

"Do I know you?"

-o0o-

Can't breathe; lot of hard work for no fucking return. No wonder. Plastic obscuring my face. Stink makes me feel sick. I pull it off.

Vision's blurred. A coffee coloured blob poking from a baggy blue sleeve thrusts the thing over my face, smothering me again. I struggle. Don't want it; try and turn my head away to no avail.

"Nuhhhh," I gasp.

"It's oxygen, Logan. It'll help you to breathe." Female. And kinda familiar but I can't place her. "I'll give you something to make it easier, okay." She looms over me and there's a weird clicking noise, like insects scuttling across ceramic. I can smell chemicals and suddenly I feel a mild tingling sensation spreading from my right hand and up my arm. Drugs! The fucking bitch is drugging me.

"Nooooo!"

"Hey tough guy. Barely conscious and causing me more trouble, huh?"

"G'fuck y'self."

"That famed verbal abuse of yours is music to my ears, stud. Do you know where you are?"

Stud? That what passes for bedside manner 'round here or has the bitch been peaking? "In hell. Wass wrong? Som'n's wrong." The words are muffled by the mask. Why the fuck am I slurring my speech like a goddamn drunk?

"You're doing fine, Logan," She assures me.

Fine? If I'm doing fine why the fuck am I here?

The blurs turn grey. Leached of colour everything goes away for a while.

-o0o-

Something's wrong. I can feel it in my alloy coated bones. Inside my head the animal rages, urging me to get the fuck outta Dodge before something worse happens.

Something worse than what?

I lie there staring up at a clinical white ceiling with diffused fluorescent lights, taking my bearings. There's a machine beeping away close by. The stink of anaesthetic and other medicated chemical shit assaults my nose. And I'm not alone. I can hear someone breathing, shallow and even, as if asleep. A strong sense of déjà vu twists my gut and instinctively I lift my arms and feel relief flood through me. No restraints.

Nose tells me the nearby presence is female. No denying that giveaway musky odour. The eyes confirm it. Slim, dark skinned woman with braided and beaded hair and rumpled blue scrubs seated and slumped over a desk. Definitely asleep. The rank smell of sweat tells me she ain't washed for a while. Neither have I. This is significant. Time has passed. At least twenty four hours worth, probably more.

The desire to leave quickens my blood and I try to roll on my side noiselessly, swing my legs off of whatever I'm lying on but find myself getting tangled up in plastic tubes and wires. I'm hooked up to something. Several somethings. Rooms spinning so I pause, wait for it to stop. I check the woman. She doesn't stir.

Nose prongs. My chest feels like a chorus line of elephants has tap-danced on it so maybe the oxygen was a requirement. Breathing hurts but I don't seem to be struggling so the prongs are the first to go. I've got tubes and wires coming out of what seems like everywhere. I'm hooked up to IVs and a whole bunch of monitors. I begin plucking at the electrodes and grimace like a wuss as chest hair comes out with some of 'em.. No point silently beating feet if I'm hauling a cartload of electronics after my ass. The screen flatlines as the last of the electrodes falls away and a continual, monotone drone replaces the beeping. Another glance at the woman finds her head still resting on her folded arms.

I manage to sit up but dizziness makes my head spin like a son of a bitch. I feel weak too, like I've been drained of energy, like Rogue's done her vampire thing. And the left side of my face and neck burn. Exploratory fingers discover ragged lines of healing tissue. Something cut me but good.

Removing the IV lines is going to be trickier than the electrodes. I start plucking at the canula on the back of my right hand.

"Still giving me grief, I see. What do you think you're doing, Logan?"

Narrowly focused on making my escape I hadn't heard the change in her breathing pattern or the rustle of clothing as she stirred herself from the chair. The doctor, a vague memory tells me that's she ain't no nurse, looks and smells exhausted. And she's too small to cause me any problems.

"Leaving."

"Do you think that's a good idea."

"Don't give a shit. I'm goin'."

"And just how far do you think you'll get with a pulmonary embolism?"

"A what?"

"You have a blood clot in your lung."

"That's impossible. I don't get blood clots."

"You do when your supercharged immune system attacks and destroys the cells in transfused blood products so they form massive clots."

It does? "Ain't hardly gonna kill me," I say with conviction.

"And you're sure of that are you tough guy?"

Behind her rimless spectacles the warm brown skin around her eyes is smudged, almost like bruising, and seamed with faint lines; the whites of her deep brown eyes are bloodshot. Shoulders drooping, her head falls forward causing the tiny wooden beads on her many braids to rattle together. She looks defeated, like she's just about to be served with a medical malpractice suit. Ya ain't inspiring confidence, darlin'. And yer too damn familiar by half.

"Don't call me that!" Damn doctors. Who the fuck d'ya think ya talking to, woman?

"Okay. Logan, " she emphasises my name, "do you know where you are?"

What sort of stupid fucking question is that? Damn good one actually. Where the hell am I? Caught off guard I glare at her.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that. Was that a "no idea" scowl or one of your patented "fuck you" scowls?"

"Waddaya think?"

"I think it wouldn't hurt you to answer the question."

"How long've I been here?" I counter, stalling for time while I frantically search my brain for an answer to her question.

"Two days."

Two days? "Shit!"

"I get the distinct impression you're stalling, Logan. Do you know where you are?"

Not being able to answer one simple question is pissing me off. I feel spaced out and rummaging through my head for an answer ain't producing the goods. I reckon whatever's being pushed through those IVs is responsible. Then the answer emerges from the murk.

"Med-lab," I reply grudgingly. So now I got the where but the absence of why and how is bugging the crap out of me. Did I get my ass mauled on a mission? How come it's taking so long for the wounds to heal? Did I have to do the suck me dry thing with Rogue again? Explains my enervation. So how come I can't remember a fucking thing? I'm missing something here and Doctor Babe has the answers. It's written all over her in scent and body language. She's as twitchy as a bag of ferrets and dripping guilt like a leaky sump.

"Thank you. Now we're making progress."

"The only progress I'm interested in making, sweetheart, is through the door and outta this fucking lab. But first, yer gonna tell me how ya screwed up my healing factor." I rack my brains for her name. Can't find it. I know her though. Know her scent. My senses are intact even if my memory's hazy.

"What makes you think I have?"

"Because I've been at your tender mercy for two fucking days, the wounds on my neck are only partially healed and I feel like shit."

"Fair comment. Your unique physiology and the paucity of medical records proved to be difficult challenge." She folds her arms around herself defensively and chews her bottom lip. "Your healing factor is nothing short of phenomenal. Would you care to enlighten me about it?"

"No I wouldn't. I know ya fucked up so just spill it will ya? And keep it simple. None of them fancy twenty dollar words quacks are so fond of."

Her face stricken with guilt, she closes her eyes – are her lashes really that long? - inhales deeply and then looks directly at me, resolute, her professional facade firmly in place. Whatever happens next she's gonna take it on the chin with dignity. Gotta admire that. Maybe I should tell her I got no damn use for lawyers. As far as I'm concerned the bastards occupy an evolutionary niche somewhere south of slime mould. Ain't gonna tell her yet though 'coz I'm enjoying watching her squirm. Small payment for what she's about to spring to.

"Very well. But please answer this question first. Prior to the blood transfusion administered by Doctor Grey following the Liberty Island incident, have you ever undergone a similar procedure to replace loss of fluids?"

"Not that I recall. Why?"

"Because your healing factor packed a nasty surprise I wasn't prepared for."

"Really? What did it do? Demand to see yer qualifications?"

"This isn't a laughing matter, Logan. You nearly died."

"I doubt that." I've survived worse than you'll ever dish out, doll.

"Rahne's claws lacerated your carotid artery and this resulted in catastrophic blood loss before your healing factor repaired the damaged vessel."

Whoa! Who the fuck's Rahne? The name evokes green eyes, red hair and a 'tude the size of Alaska. "You saying a kid did this?" A damn kid tore out my throat?

"What's the last thing you remember?"

My brows creases as I concentrate on finding the answer. "Not sure. I think I was in the garage and Beam Boy was involved. Everything seems to be blank after that."

"Beam Boy?"

"Ya know. Summers. The guy whose colon is so rigid ya could use it as a rocket launcher."

Her lips quirk into a smile. I like the way her eyes shine when she smiles. Eyes never lie. Not to me. "You're suffering from amnesia. It's to be expected."

"Why can't I remember what happened? Did I hit my head or something? Will my memory return?" If some cocksucker screwed with my head I swear I'll hunt him down and kill his ass slowly and painfully.

"You don't have head trauma and no one has interfered with your mind, Logan. Your memory loss is due to the combination of oxygen deprivation, medication and trauma. Usually the loss is temporary but I have to inform you that some or all of the loss could be permanent. It's evident you have some recall of short term memory so I'm confident the prognosis is favourable."

I can smell she's telling the truth. Coming from a doctor that's something. "Then maybe you'd better start by filling in the details."

"I'm not familiar with them all but I think that would be a good idea."

"I'm all ears."

"You were talking to Rahne in the library when she attacked you."

I get the feeling this ain't the first time. Is there something about the kid that makes her unstable? "Any idea why?"

"No. You can't remember and she's too traumatised to talk about it yet."

"I hurt her?"

The doc ain't shaking her head. And she ain't making eye contact no more. Shit!

"Rendered her unconscious. According to eyewitnesses you were talking about not being afraid when she manifested a sudden, unprovoked feral episode. One of her claws lacerated your carotid causing you to haemorrhage at an appalling rate while you grappled with her. Seriously Logan, she didn't leave you any alternative. Don't worry, she's okay."

The awful truth congeals in my guts and turned them to water. I beat up a kid? What sort of sick fuck am I? Chest constricts, makes me work harder for breath.

"You've gone pale." She seizes my wrist and feels my pulse. "C'mon. Get your ass back on the bed. Whether you like it or not you aren't out of the woods yet."

"I'm fine. Leave me be." I try to pull my hand from her grasp but her grip is too firm. She let's go but her point has been made.

"Bullshit."

"Some fucking bedside manner you got." Christ on stilts but that makes me sound like some sorry ass whiner.

"Whatever gets the job done, hombre."

She raises the backrest so I'm not flat on my back and helps me swing my legs up on the – she calls this a bed? Satisfied that I'm comfortable she busies herself reattaching electrodes. Is it my imagination or is the beeping machine beeping a little faster than before?

"That's more than enough excitement for the time being. I think it's best you rest now and we'll continue this little chat later, okay?"

"I wanna know," I demand. "I shoulda recovered from a torn throat. What went wrong?"

Doc draws up a chair and sits at my side. Guess this is gonna take time. "You lost half of your blood volume before your healing factor repaired the artery and then you went into severe hypovolemic shock."

Nearly half? Fuck! "Hypo what?"

"Hypovolemic shock. Reduced blood volume reduces the availability of oxy-haemoglobin and starves vital organs of oxygen. If this is allowed to continue your organs begin to shut down and this is very serious…"

This I don't need to know. "Hey, I've seen ER, okay?"

The doctor smiles. "Okay. So you understand some of the basic medical jargon. That's good."

"Don't be so fucking patronising."

"Patronise you, the scary Wolverine? I wouldn't dare."

Scary? If you knew really how scary I can be, darlin', it'd wipe that smile clean off of ya pretty face. "So what went wrong?"

Instantly sober she continues, "Moira typed and cross matched your blood. You're blood group is Rhesus O Negative which tallies with Doctor Grey's notes. You were exanguinating at a frightening rate so it was vital I transfuse you. Shortly after the procedure ended things began to go very badly wrong."

"You saying it was Jeanie's fault?"

"No. Doctor Grey's notes were very thorough. She was an extremely competent physician."

Damn straight she was. Mollified I growl, "Go on."

"I followed the established procedure for the treatment of hypovolemia. Infusion of fluids including saline and blood products via a central line, oxygen and Epinephrine to increase blood pressure and cardiac output. You were doing so well until your system went into meltdown. Fortunately Moira was at hand to assist me otherwise I'm not sure what would have happened."

Meltdown? "I ain't following you."

"You suffered a massive transfusion reaction. After repairing the damaged artery, elements in your healing factor attacked and destroyed the infused red blood cells. Moira performed a test that revealed the extent of the hemolysis…"

What did I say? Quacks and their fancy words. "I said keep it simple will ya?"

"…destruction of the infused blood cells. This caused a condition called agglutination, where certain kinds of blood cells become sticky and clump together. Another test revealed your levels of prothrombin were dangerously high. I administered an anticoagulant but an embolus, a clot, had already formed and lodged in one of your lungs."

"My healing factor caused this?" She's gotta be mistaken. My healing factor prevents shit like this from happening.

"Luckily, Moira was on hand to diagnose the problem. Unfortunately that wasn't the end of the crisis. While I was setting up a heparin syringe you went into cardiac arrest."

I'm having difficulty taking this on board. Shit like this does not happen to the tough, bad Wolverine, not even when metal is poured on my bones. "So, did I light up like a fucking Christmas tree when you used the paddles?"

"With your metal skeleton electrical defibrillation was out of the question. Your healing factor was compromised, badly weakened by blood loss and the battle with the transfused blood cells so we couldn't risk weakening you further by electrocuting you. Normal procedures went out of the window and time was running out so, out of desperation, I injected you with enough neuro-epinephrine to resuscitate half of New York State. It worked. Unfortunately it awakened your feral side. I was forced to keep you sedated after you went nuts and tried to claw your way out of the med-lab."

"I did?" Well at least something sounds right.

"Yeah, it was pretty scary for a while even when you were restrained. Maggie helped calm you down because you were fighting the sedative."

"Did I hurt anyone?"

Beads clack as she shakes her head. "The only casualty was my wits."

"Ya should've just left me, Doc. None of this would've happened if ya'd just let my healing factor work it's mojo."

"I wasn't prepared to risk your life on that assumption, Logan. Your blood _is_ your healing factor and you'd lost a hell of a lot of it. I guess I underestimated the half you had left. It put up one hell of a fight."

The lady made a bad call. She knows it and I can smell it. But one things puzzles me.

"Why didn't this happen when Jean transfused me?"

Doc shrugs. "I can only speculate. There was nothing in Doctor Grey's notes to suggest you would suffer such an extreme transfusion reaction. Best guess is saving Rogue drained you to within an inch of your life and all but neutralised your healing factor for a while. It's likely this event prevented a transfusion reaction. It's also possible you built up a resistance to the antigens or foreign DNA in the first transfusion and this triggered an extreme response to the second one. Moira is qualified to answer your question if you would permit her to research the problem. It might be prudent to donate blood on a regular basis in case an emergency like this occurs again."

So ya can experiment with it? No more fucking experiments. Not ever. "No need. Ain't gonna happen again. Besides, you can tell 'em it won't work. Tell 'em I can heal without help."

"You're an X Man. You go into dangerous situations and risk injury so don't be so sure you'll never need help in a similar situation. Your unique physiology makes your blood incompatible with anyone else's. I hope there isn't a next time but if it happens, and there is no compatible blood available, I'll infuse saline to hydrate and stabilise you and let nature and your healing factor take its course and hope for the best. It's against my instincts and medical training but hard way twenty twenty hindsight has taught me otherwise."

Shit, I can't let her beat herself up over this any longer. At least she tried to help me.

"Ya did what ya thought was right. Seems to me Jeannie woulda done the same. Not your fault, okay? Ya couldn't've known." I sure as hell didn't.

"Your generosity doesn't make me feel better but it's appreciated. Thank you." Actually that ain't true. Relief rises from her like warm air.

"When can I get outta here?"

"When I'm satisfied the embolism has dissolved."

That ain't the answer I'm looking for. "And when will that be?"

"Just as soon as the heparin and your healing factor beat the crap out of it."

Fair enough. I can stand a few hours more in this place. Maybe. "Healing factor needs fuel. Any chance of a steak? Make it bloody."

"No chance I'm afraid. However, Maggie has prepared some of her nutritious and very tasty chicken broth."

Chicken broth.

_Chicken broth!_

Don't she understand I need solid sustenance? A mountain of protein.

"Just the ticket for an invalid." She smiles at me, revealing her perfect white teeth.

"Fuck you too."

Patting me on the shoulder her smiling lips widen into a grin. "Atta boy!"

"Stuff the broth. I want real food," I demand. And I ain't letting up on ya 'til ya deliver, sister.

"It is real food."

"Then you eat it."

"I might just do that." She rises from the chair, strolls over to her desk, picks up the phone and punches a short series of numbers.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Ordering a take-out."

What? And all I get is chicken broth? "Ya gonna make me sit there and watch you eat food while I get nothing but strained dish water?

"Of course not, stud. I'll take it into my office and eat it."

"Well ain't that just fucking peachy."

"If you're a good boy I might let you breathe in the aroma. Only if you're very good mind."

The beast inside me stirs. "Grrrrrrrrr." Growling certainly gets her attention.

"What was that?"

In reply she gets a taste of my scariest fuck off and die snarl.

"Thought so. You don't get so much as a sniff for that, mister."

That does it. "I don't have to sit here and take this."

She glares at me. "You'll stay right where you are or I'll sedate your sorry ass. Oh, hi Maggie. Yeah, I'd say we're maxed out on the bee wash scale. Category five at least. Five minutes? I'll try to contain the situation until you arrive."

Bee wash scale? What the heck is that?

Placing the receiver on it's cradle she turns and smiles at me. "Maybe I'll have Maggie puree you some meat and potatoes tomorrow."

I ain't gonna be here tomorrow, sweetheart. "Yeah? Well you can take your baby food and stick it up your ass."

"I do that and there's only one other item left on the menu."

Stony silence. I know when I'm being baited.

"Nothing to say?"

What's the point? She ain't gonna deliver anything I wanna hear.

For the next few minutes I watch her busy herself with a small holdall. Her name still eludes me. Celina? Selma? Something like that. It'll come to me. Snarky bitch will do as a stand in. As I search for my awol memories a feeling of unease washes over me. Ya know the sinking sensation ya get in ya gut when you've got on the plane and ya can't remember whether or not ya locked front door? Well this is way worse than that. There's something important I need to remember and I can't find it.

Doc fastens the hold all and shoves it to the back of the desk. "You going somewhere?"

"Why, do you care?"

"Nope."

"Then I'm not telling." She tries unsuccessfully to smooth some of the creases out of her scrubs, makes a face and gives up.

Yeah. She's a real snarky bitch. Maybe it's because she's running on empty. She's radiating fatigue like there's no tomorrow and that's enough to make anyone fell cranky.

Servos whir as the door slides aside. Maggie enters the med-lab carrying a tray with a covered dish, a lump of crustless bread and a jug of water. Wafting in with her is a delicious aroma that sends my salivary glands into overdrive. It's definitely chicken but no gruel ever smelled that good. Maybe Doc was funning with me. My stomach growls loudly in anticipation.

"Dear me. The atmosphere in here is so chilly it could freeze a penguin's bottom," Maggie observes as she places the tray on top of a handy filing cabinet.

"Logan isn't happy about the cuisine. Funny thing is, his nostrils started flaring the moment you walked in so it seems that chicken broth doesn't sound too bad after all, huh?"

"Waddaya expect of a man that's been fed nothing but intravenous plastic bag for two days?" Feels a hell of a lot longer than that.

"Take no notice of him, petal," Maggie says as she wheels a mobile bed table across the lab.. "Logan has a relationship with food that would put a gannet to shame."

"Do not!" I declare. Beer, maybe. Do gannets drink beer?

"Pet, when it comes to scrumping food from the kitchen you are way ahead of the field. The competition, and it _is _impressive, couldn't hold a candle to you."

After positioning the table across my lap Maggie fiddles with a lever to adjust the height so I ain't bumping my knees on it.

"That right?" I can't help grinning. My money would have been on Mister Frosty. The kid has a black hole where his stomach should be.

"That's because the competition doesn't have a healing factor constantly fighting off the effects of alcohol, tobacco and adamantium poisoning," Doctor Snark states matter of factly. Bet she's a real hoot at parties. What does she do for an encore? Weld razor blades to bedpans?

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You saying the adamantium was self inflicted?"

"Of course not. I'm simply suggesting your larger than life appetite is proportionate to your physiological need to maintain your healing factor at an optimum level."

"Ya know what, Doc? I'd never've worked that out without ya help." I ain't hiding my sarcasm. Where the hell do these people get off acquainting feral with stupid?

"I didn't mean it that way, Logan."

"Then what did ya mean?"

"Other than stating the case for the bloody obvious? Nothing at all."

Maggie steps in. "Logan, Cecilia was only trying to be helpful," she says in full arbitration mode. She's giving off calmness and I can feel it lapping against my mind like small waves breaking on a beach.

"Don't need it. Don't want it," I growl. I've had a bellyful of helpful. All it's gotten me is a big ass heparin syringe and chicken broth.

"That is less than gracious, pet."

"So sue me."

Cecilia. The name initiates a small memory cascade. Cecilia Reyes, Puerto Rican doctor temporarily filling in until Charlie can find a permanent replacement for Jeannie. She's a mutant. Grade A bitch. An apparently limitless capacity to piss me off.

"It's all right, Maggie," Cecilia interjects. "It's common for patients to be grouchy after a serious trauma. He'll be his old self in no time."

"This is his old self, dear."

"Really? Tough break." The beads rattle as Cecilia shakes her head in mock disbelief. Both of 'em are carrying on this conversation like I ain't present.

"Hey, I'm right here listening to this crap. And I ain't fucking grouchy, okay?"

In a sweet as sugar voice, Snarkster says, "Of course you aren't. Logan. Your behaviour is perfectly normal for someone suffering from Asinus Syndrome."

She's just made that up. I can read it in her eyes. "You calling me an asshole?"

"No but it's close enough."

Maggie places the tray in front of me and lifts the lid off the dish so that my face is bathed in hot, aromatic steam.. "This tastes nicer when it's hot. I've baked some soft bread especially for you to dunk in the broth. Bon appetite, Logan." Taking the jug, Maggie fills a tumbler with iced water and sets it down next to the dish.

"Mmmm, smells divine. I could use some of that," Doc Snark says as she sniffs the air.

"I've left you a bowlful in the warming oven, petal. Thought you might appreciate something simple to fill your insides before catching up on some shut-eye."

"That's really sweet of you Maggie." Cecilia grabs her bag and swings it over her shoulder. "Any problems you call me and I'll be straight down, okay?"

"Don't worry. Moira will be popping by to take over in a couple of hours. Just you get some well earned rest," Maggie says in her familiar motherly voice.

"Thanks. See You Maggie. You too, tough guy. You behave yourself now."

I give her the universal sign for spin on it. Her laughter echoes as she exits the lab.

Side show gone, I stare at the bowl. The broth sure as hell looks like dishwater, especially with the tiny blobs of grease floating on the surface. Here goes nothing. Scooping some into the spoon I take a sample slurp. It's damn good so I set to it like it's a royal feast.

"Not as bad as you thought then?"

I shake my head as I stuff a piece of broth soaked bread into my mouth.

"Good. Try to leave the pattern intact because the bowl is one of a set."

"Everyone's a fucking comedian today," I observe as polish off the last of the broth.

"Laughter makes the world go round, pet."

"So does beer."

"No beer. No alcohol of any description. Cecilia was very specific about that. I'm afraid caffeine is on the prohibited substances list too."

Damn! "I suppose a smoke's out of the question then," I ask hopefully

Maggie peers at me over her spectacles and frowns. "That wouldn't be a terribly good idea now would it, pet. Besides, nicotine is sub-listed under _pigs will fly first_."

Double damn! No Booze. No smokes. Not even any Java. I'm in hell.

"You don't need to be here, Maggie. I'm sure ya have stuff to do."

"Nice try, Logan but you're stuck with me until Moira arrives. Cecilia thought it prudent not to leave you to your own devices so at this moment in time _you _are my stuff to do."

Huh? "Ya babysitting me? Reyes worried I'll chew the furniture and stick my fingers in live sockets?"

A deep sigh escapes Maggie's lips. "If Scott informed you that alcohol was bad for you and you should refrain from imbibing forthwith, what would you do?"

That's easy. "I'd tell the interfering dickweed to shove his head up his own ass."

"And that is precisely why I am here. You have a life threatening medical condition, a severely weakened healing factor and a serious problem following advice you don't like. Do you really need me to join the dots?"

She's right but I ain't gonna admit it. I want out of the med-lab in the worst possible way. Places like this make my ass hairs twitch and coat my spine in ice. "Why can't I rest up in my own room? It's more comfortable there. I'll even promise to be a good boy if that's what it takes."

Maggie stares at me with those pale brown eyes of hers and nods slightly. "I'll see what Cecilia says. Meanwhile, there is no reason you can't have a few home comforts. I can ask Scott to arrange for a portable TV if you like."

"No thanks." Ain't asking Boy Scout for any favours. Besides, there ain't any hockey on the boob tube until Saturday and I plan to be outta here by then come hell or high water.

"I've brought some playing cards." Maggie reaches into a pocket and draws out a deck, maybe would could pass the time with a few games.

"Very thoughtful," I mutter without enthusiasm.

"What would you like to play, pet?"

"How about strip poker?"

"Since you are half naked already you'd be at a disadvantage."

"So play to lose," I suggest, wriggling my eyebrows.

"You're bad to the bone, Logan. In the nicest possible way of course."

"You have no idea, Maggie."

"Not cards then." Maggie drops the cards back into her pocket. "Bobby offered the use of his games console. He mentioned your fondness for a particular game. What was it now? Ah, yes. Doom Two."

Wow! That's a turn up. Mister Frosty offering to part with his precious Playstation. Even on a temporary basis that's impressive. "Tell him thanks, but no."

"Chess?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Well, we could always do something old fashioned."

Shit! She ain't gonna suggest I Spy or charades is she?

"Don't go all cornered wolf on me, Logan. I'm merely suggesting we talk. You know how to talk don't you? Just put your lips together and flap them."

Maggie's actually manages to put a genuine smile on my face. How about that?

"Depends on what you wanna talk about." My inner Logan ain't on the agenda. Any subject concerning how I can get the fuck out of the med-lab will receive enthusiastic participation.

"Well we could talk about your young lady. She has been rather worried about you. Given the closeness you two share I'm surprised you haven't asked after her."

My young lady? What the fuck is Maggie talking about. I know she can't mean Rogue. My previous uneasiness flares. I'm missing something important here. Something vital. There's a stirring in the back of my mind but whatever it is refuses to venture forth from the fog of amnesia. "You wanna run that by me again, Maggie? The last few days are still a bit hazy."

"Jessica. She strikes me as a very nice girl. Sunny disposition. Even temperament. Lots of spirit and common sense. All in all an excellent combination."

Jessica. A picture forms in my minds eye. Dishevelled hair the colour of red honey. Blue eyes as bright and clear as a summer sky. Lips sweeter and more luscious than any peach. Skin the texture of silk. And a wild passion that rivals my own. How could I have forgotten Jessie?

"Ahh shit. I'd arranged to meet her. She'll think I stood her up." I gotta see her. It's an imperative. I need to touch her, to breath her in. I need…

"Don't worry, Logan. I found her telephone number in your jacket pocket after we stripped off your blood soaked clothing. I'm afraid the sleeve of your leather jacket is beyond repair by the way."

Don't give a fuck about the jacket. I can buy a new one. "You spoke to her?"

"And explained you had suffered an injury. At first she didn't believe me. Seemed to think I was making excuses for you."

I nod slowly. "She knows about my healing factor. I told her about my mutation." I told her and she still wanted me.

"Yes, I realised that. I managed to convince her you'd encountered a situation from which even your healing factor couldn't extricate you. I suggested she work her shift at the bar and arranged to meet her at the Auger Inn. The poor child risked being sacked when she asked her employer for a few days off. I managed to persuade the gentleman that Jessica attracted customers to his establishment and sacking her would be tantamount to cutting off his nose to spite his face. Thankfully he accepted my point of view."

That must've killed the bastard. Sal's the type to sack someone for taking time off to attend their mother's funeral. "Where's Jessie now?"

"Where she's been since she arrived. Upstairs."

So close. Why hasn't she been to see me? "I wanna see her."

I get a sense of chagrin flowing from Maggie and her lips are pursed. I get the feeling she's been fighting in my corner and lost. "That may not be possible just now, pet. Maybe tomorrow would be better."

No way in fucking hell am I taking this shit. "I wanna see her now."

"There is a problem. You'll have to be patient and I promise you, you will be able to see Jessica."

"I don't do patient. If she's upstairs what's the fucking problem?"

"There's a question of security protocol. Jessica has not been given clearance to access the lower levels yet."

Why not? There's a simple solution to that. "Get Charlie to check her out."

"That's isn't possible at the moment, pet. He and Ororo are attending a meeting in Washington." She looks genuinely sorry about the whole thing. This isn't her fault but I can guess who's behind it.

"Fucking Summers."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Summers. It's him ain't it? That pusbag cocksucker is refusing her access on purpose and laughing his ass off in the process."

This time there's an edge to Maggie's voice and it's directed at me. "I hardly think Scott would be so deliberately unkind and please could you curb your language, Logan. There really is no need…"

I cut off her words with a savage gesture. "I'm not a kid, Maggie."

"No you're not which is why I expect at least a modicum of restraint."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Charles will be returning later this evening. I am sure this can be resolved amicably." Maggie is trying to use her empathy to calm me, to get me to see reason. All I want is to see Jessica. Knowing she's so close is driving me nuts.

"It's gonna get resolved right now. If she can't come to me then I'm walking out of the fucking med-lab right now."

"Logan, be reasonable."

I start pulling off the electrodes. As the last one peels off my skin the monitor issues its flatline wail.

"Please don't do this." Maggie places her hand over one of mine. I brush it off.

"If Jessie can't come to me then I'm going to her." I mean it. There's something inside me driving me to this need and I can feel the animal howling deep, deep down. It wants what I want.

"Even if it kills you?"

What's this? Shock tactics? "Like that's gonna happen." One tug and the canula in the back of my hand is gone. I fling it aside. Last to go are the nose prongs.

"Logan, I'm begging you, please do not do this."

With empathy turned on to the max Maggie hits me hard, her message akin to a physical force – THIS IS WRONG!

"I just wanna see her, Maggie. I need to see her."

Ain't listening. I've been fucked with and turned inside out for two days by people who've been making stuff up as they go along.. Now Summers is being an asswipe about visiting privileges. My need to see Jessie is all consuming. Even the ass kicking I'm gonna deliver to Beam Boy takes second place. Free of wires and tubes I push aside the table and slide off the bed, the cuffs of my sweat pants riding up to mid shin as I lower myself to the floor. Beneath my bare feet the tiles are cool and slightly rough. My skin feels sticky against the tiles as I put my full weight on them.

The exertion makes the room spin and I grip the edge of the bed to steady myself while I wait for the vertigo to subside. Meanwhile, Maggie ain't letting up none on the empathic suggestion front. I wouldn't blame anyone else for caving in under the onslaught. But I ain't anyone else. Coupled with the empathic suggestion she's exuding is an emotional pall of fear and concern laced with exasperation. I guess she's a tad pissed off at me, first time I've ever seen a crack in her cool exterior. It don't give me any pleasure to see her this way. And I ain't gonna let it get between me and the door.

"Logan, this has gone far enough!" The commanding tone in her voice is sufficient for me to snap my head around and look at her. On seeing she's won my attention she continues, "I understand your need and I'm on your side in this. Now please get back into bed and I'll see what I can do to persuade Scott to allow Jessica access to the med-lab."

The act of turning my head sharply makes the room gyrate and I suddenly regret having a full stomach.. Before I can form a response the room does a back-flip giving the floor the opportunity to blindside me. Pain spreads outwards from the back of my skull causing my vision to dissolve into jagged, blinding white streaks.

Then everything blinks out.

**Love it or loathe it, please leave a review. Believe it or not, what you think really does matter to me. :0)**


	13. Heavy Metal

**Disclaimer: **Maggie and Jessica are mine. Ya know the rest.

Thanks to **Dee **(MidLifeCrisi) who kindly beta'd this and the previous chapter. Her help on medical procedures has been a great help. Thanks a million, sweetheart.

Thanks to **JoeGood2003,** **Dee** (MidLifeCrisis), **dayrunner 145**, and **Taluliaka**, for their encouraging reviews.

**Chapter 13: Heavy Metal.**

"Oh, Logan. What were you thinking, pet?"

As my vision clears I can see Maggie's concerned face eclipsing my view of the med-lab ceiling. The surface beneath me is hard and cold except for a soft towel cradling my head.

I can't believe I fainted like a girl.

"Did I pass out?"

"Just for a few moments."

Confirmation. "Damn!"

"Your head hit the floor with such a crack you may have given yourself concussion. I think it best you don't move until assistance arrives. It's on the way right now."

Christ, who's she called? Better not be Summers or the queen of snark. There's no way either of 'em's gonna see me like this. I manage to prop myself up on an elbow and attempt to manoeuvre my legs so I can get my knees underneath me. "Don't need any help."

"Pet, you are not doing yourself any favours. Why do you insist on taking obstinacy and macho growliness to an extreme?"

Head feels twice its normal size and the back of my skull is throbbing like the drums of hell. I don't need Maggie lecturing me right now. Frustrated and scared by this unprecedented weakness my rage erupts in an uncontrollable torrent..

"Because I'm one awkward, motherfucking son of a bitch. And I am not your fucking pet."

Maggie stiffens and I hear a sharp intake of breath. I've hurt her. Jeezus, I didn't mean that. She's trying to help me and I snap and snarl at her like a wounded beast. What sort of bastard treats a friend that way? Guilt gets distracted by a more pressing and unpleasant sensation. Stomach's churning like a maelstrom;. "Oh shit…" I swallow hard against the bile burning it's way up my oesophagus but it's a battle that's already lost. Can't help it. I'm gonna barf. Like magic a metal bowl appears before me and in the nick of time too. Where the hell did she get that?

"There you go, pet," she says in her soothing mother's voice.

Heaving so hard I expect to see my toenails floating in the goop I almost don't hear the door servos. That's just great. Sprawled on the floor, half naked and puking my guts up and I got a fucking audience. Maggie rubs my back as I dry heave. All that's left is the lining of my stomach and I don't really wanna be acquainted with that. Finally, the nausea subsides.

"All finished?"

I begin to nod my head and think better of it. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good." She hands me a moist wipe.

"Maggie, what I said, just then. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't, pet. People aren't at their best when they're feeling under the weather."

Before I can answer, she's taken the bowl away. Now the stink of vomit isn't filling my nose I can smell the two newcomers. The absence of a handy bowl disinclines me to turn my head in their direction. One smells pleasant and the name Moira springs into my mind. Peachy, she's brought the Smurf with her. His overlying bamf stink is almost as bad as the puke and I start to dry heave. Oh god, is it possible to feel this wretched and live?

Moira crouches at my side. "Look at me, laddie." Taking it slowly I comply, looking straight into her deep green eyes. It suddenly strikes me that this is the kid's mom.

"I…"

"Hush a wee moment will yeh?" She don't sound particularly angry. In fact the only thing I'm getting off of her is concern. I don't understand.

Shining a light into each of my eyes she says, "Pupils are even and reacting normally." She holds three fingers up. "How many fingers can yeh see?"

"Two more than I'd use."

She don't smile exactly but she does seem to be amused. "D'yeh know what day it is?"

"No fucking idea. Two days after I was brought in here."

Reaching behind my head she probes the tenderness."

"Ow! Gerroff." How come I don't remember the little snippet about her being a goddamn sadist?

"At least we dinnae need tae worry about fractures. I don't think yeh've a concussion but we'll keep yeh under observation just the same." She turns away. "C'mon, let's help the laddie get tae his feet."

I wanna tell them to back off; that I can do this without their help. Common sense dictates that letting them help is far more is preferable to the indignity of falling on my ass again. Grudgingly, I allow them to invade my personal space and help me upright with the Elf taking the strain. My metal laden weight makes blue guy grunt with exertion. Shrugging them off I manage to sit myself on the edge of the bed. I'm shaking, and not just from the effort of getting up. Don't want them to witness my weakness. I just want them to go the fuck away but that don't seem to be happening.

"Are you feeling all right, pet?"

Nothing escapes Maggie's eagle eye.

"It's cold in here," I lie.

Lips pursed she gives me one of her shrewd stares. I'm under no illusion I'm fooling her for a second.

"Let's get yeh back in the bed, Logan. Yeh shouldn't be exerting yersel' like this. Whatever gave yeh over tae this nonsense?" Moira looks at me expecting an explanation. She can expect as much as she likes 'coz I ain't in the mood to explain.

I stink of sickness, medication, sweat and vomit. The taste in my mouth is worse. Ignoring her question I respond to her suggestion.

"No." Moira raises a questioning eyebrow and Maggie rolls her eyes in a _what now_ kinda way. "I smell worse than a gorilla's jockstrap. I wanna get cleaned up." Ain't gonna compromise on this. Not even I wanna sit next to me.

"What fascinating imagery yeh use. Fair enough. I'm sure a washbasin can be arranged."

"No fucking bed-baths. I know there's a shower in the med-lab. I wanna use that." Don't wanna stink like a polecat for Jessie. And I aim to be seeing her real soon.

"I don't think that's a good idea, lad." Moira's expression is one of determination. I watched Charlie bend under it's onslaught. Well I ain't Charlie.

"Ain't up for debate. I gotta stay in this fucking dungeon then I get to use the shower." Never argued the case to clean up before. This is a real novelty. "And I get to use my own stuff. Not that chemical scrub the docs use."

Maggie and Moira look at each other. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt under supervision," Moira concedes. "Once I've satisfied myself your fall didn't do anything untoward tae the embolism."

Don't like the sound of that. "Don't take all day. And ya can supervise the other side of the door. I won't lock it okay?"

"I'll nip upstairs and get your stuff, pet. I'll be back inside of ten minutes."

"Thanks Maggie."

Checking up on my blood pressure and heart rate, Moira quickly scribbles down the results on my medical chart. Then she listens to my chest. "Yeh've a bit of congestion, Logan."

"What does that mean?"

"Yeh heart's not working as efficiently as it might or maybe yeh've contracted a virus. Whatever the cause there's some minor fluid build up in yer lungs. The condition needs monitoring and I have tae advise against taking the shower."

Well I feel fucking assured by that. "Ya know what ya can do with yer advice." I glare at Stinky and find he's deliberately not looking in my direction. Instead he's studiously engaged in reading an eye chart like it's a bestseller. Bet the plot sucks just as badly too.

"Even though it's against my better judgement?"

"I got heightened senses, Moira. I need to do this."

"No yeh don't Yeh planning on using the toilet before yeh shower?"

"Nah, I thought I'd turn a few cartwheels and climb the north face of the Chrysler Building."

"Well, before yeh do that…" Moira bends and retrieves a small bowl and a piss bottle from a low shelf. "…yeh can fill these. I want a urine and stool sample from yeh if yeh can manage it."

"Ya want me to shit in a bowl?"

"Well I wouldnae put it quite like that, but yes."

Kill me now.

Dumping the receptacles on a handy surface Moira walks over to a door on the far side of the med-lab and opens it. From what little I can see it looks like a medical storeroom. She disappears and emerges a few seconds later with a wheelchair.

"What's that for?" I ask, my suspicion gauge registering in the red.

"Yeh expect us tae compromise, well so do yeh."

No. No way are they gonna get me in that thing. "There's not a snowball's chance in…"

"Not debateable," she paraphrases. "Yer too heavy to carry and I'm not going tae risk yeh falling and that clot breaking free because yer too macho to be pushed a few feet across a room. Kurt, can yeh take one of those plastic chairs and put it in the shower please?"

"Of course."

Eyes narrowed I watch him do Moira's bidding. Actually I'm relieved about the chair because as much as I want the shower and know my legs ain't too reliable just now. Papa Smurf, aware of my scrutiny, flicks his tail nervously and deals me a watery smile. I raise him a snarl. I don't want him here to see any of this. Nervous of my hostility he rolls those weird yellow eyes and flicks his tail faster. The bad guys are gonna eat him alive and pick their teeth with his tail spike.

Maggie returns clutching a bulging, brightly coloured toiletry bag I don't have. I guess it's a loaner. Moira has already wheeled the chair to my side and I reluctantly lower myself into it, glaring at each of them in turn and daring anyone to laugh on pain of disembowelment. Seems that Kurt is the only one who ain't amused by the sight of the Wolverine on wheels. Maybe the blue guy's cool after all.

A deep, menacing growl rumbles in my throat. "If anyone says word fucking one about this…"

-o0o-

"Whatcha doing?"

Moira's sitting hunched over a microscope and scribbling something down in a book. I don't recall her putting on the white lab coat. Guess she's been busy while I slept. The exertion of taking the shower really fucked me up. As I scrubbed away two days worth of stink, vitality drained from me at an alarming rate and it took a concentrated effort not to fall off the chair. I know I made it back to bed but I don't remember the electrodes or the canula being replaced.

I don't sleep that heavy. Not ever. Feel like shit too. Chest hurts and makes a weird wheezing sound when I breathe. Joints ache like they're being slowly wrenched apart. Vague sensation of burning in my guts. Weak and woozy. Vile taste in my mouth like old blood. My feet and hands got pins and needles. And my head's throbbing in harmony with that annoying fucking beeping of the heart monitor.

Pen poised, she swivels in her chair and regards me over her half moon spectacles. "Routine tests. Yer blood chemistry is still abnormal I'm afraid. The anticoagulant will take time tae work, several days at least. I'm hoping yer healing factor will deal wi' the problem before then but it isnae happening yet."

"So I ain't getting outta here today then."

"And probably not tomorrow. I'm sorry, Logan."

Damn! I rub the half healed wounds on my neck and left arm which are raw and tender and ain't going away so I reckon she ain't shitting me. The partially healed wounds on my knuckles where I must've ejected my claws are still weeping fluid through the dressings. This is not good.

"When can I see Jessie?"

"Maggie will speak tae Scott after he's finished his last class of the day. We'll see what can be arranged."

Are they stalling for time 'til Charlie and 'Ro return? Not happy. Summers ain't gonna relent, I can feel it in my gut. Well neither am I. Ain't Moira's fault though. "'Kay," I respond, "But I ain't taking no for an answer." She blinks, but says nothing. The stern set of her mouth says it for her.

Change of subject. Something Reyes said. A memory shakes loose and brings painful recollection. I gotta know. "Is Rahne your kid?"

Moira removes her spectacles and places them gently on the notes she's been writing. "She's my adopted daughter, yes." Her expression is carefully composed, guarded even, but I'm not getting a sense of any animosity, just anxiety. Strange.

"Then why ain'tcha tearing me a new on for what I did?"

"Do yeh remember what happened?" Interest animates her face. And hope?

"Only know what Reyes told me."

"Oh." Disappointment. This ain't the reaction I'm expecting.

"The kid okay?"

"Rahne's fine. The bruising is almost gone. The bairn has an accelerated healing factor too. Nothing like yers though." Moira smiles but there's a weariness in her green eyes that makes her seem frayed around the edges like an over-loved rag doll.. I don't know how to respond so I settle for safe.

"Good." Don't feel it. I beat up on a kid. Even if her Mom accepts that it don't make it right.

"What did Cecilia tell you?" she enquires.

"Only that the kid and I were sitting in the library talking about feeling safe when she went nuts and did a number on me. Other than that…" I shrug.

"One o' the children in the library says Rahne shouted something before the feral rage took her. Words tae the effect that yeh smelled just like him."

What the fuck does that mean? "Who's him? I don't understand."

"I think it safe tae assume the _him_ she was referring tae was her abusive father. Without going intae great detail, her father lost his mind when his wife died and his infant daughter paid for it in years of beatings and fear. The abuse grew worse when he discovered Rahne's mutantcy and believed her to be the spawn of the devil. One day she almost killed him and escaped. The man's in a secure institution now."

Good for her. But what's with the feral rage thing? "She's like me then?"

Moira smiled wanly. "Not quite. She's a werewolf. Yeh were helping the bairn try tae control her rages and she tore yeh bad with those wicked sharp claws o' hers."

"Guess I fucked up then." Moira looks distraught. There's more to this sorry tale than meets the eye. "I don't get this business about smelling like her old man though."

"No one does, Logan. It wasnae a problem until that day in the library. Maybe yeh'd been in contact with another that smelled similar."

Odds are way against that. "Possible but unlikely. Every personal scent is different. Like snowflakes, there ain't no two alike. The only way I could smell like the bastard is to physically have his scent on me. And to do that, he's gotta be somewhere close by and been in very close proximity with me, brushed up against me or the like. Ya sure he's still locked up?"

Moira nods her head. "That was my immediate fear. A phone call confirmed the Reverend Sinclair is still being cared for in a secure hospital unit."

The guy's a fucking priest?

"Then it musta been a psychosomatic trigger. Overwhelming response like that shouldn't be hard to pin down." This ain't my territory. Ask me, the kid needs a shrink. "Only person who can say for sure is the kid. Ain't ya asked her why yet?"

"I've tried. The bairn's in complete denial. Hasnae said a single word on the matter and refuses tae leave her room. I cannae even mention yer name in her hearing without her breaking intae a snarl and flexing her claws."

Sounds like seven kinds of trouble. Violence of this magnitude's gotta have a reason. The kid's spooked real good. If what Moira's saying is true, she's displaying typical fear/threat behaviour. Typical for me that is.

"If we can't identify the trigger ya run the risk of it happening again and the owner of the next throat she rips out might not be so lucky. If she ain't talking to you then she's gonna have to talk to me." Next time I'll be ready for her.

"That's nae a good idea Logan. Rahne's behaviour is too unpredictable and yer in no fit state. I already feel responsible for what happened to yeh. After yeh volunteered to help and all."

"Moira, I would have been aware of the risks when I took the job on. I knew what I was getting myself into, okay? If it's anyone's fault it's mine for allowing the situation to get out of control."

Leaning forward in her chair Moira bows her head. "Yeh a good man, Logan.

Ya say that 'coz ya don't know me, darlin'.

-o0o-

"Hey, Logan."

Rogue breezes in balancing a laden tray in her hands. More chicken broth and bread. Don't give a fuck 'coz, since the last meal don't count, I'm ready to eat boiled shoes. Saliva glands have gone into overload in anticipation.

"Hey kid."

"Ah really missed seeing ya. How're ya'll feeling now?" The frown knitting her brows together don't match the bright smile on her face. Worry ain't something that smells nice on her.

"'Fine. Be outta here sooner than ya think."

Rogue looks around for somewhere to put the tray.

"Wait a sec, Rogue. I'll just get the table." Moira rises from her seat and retrieves the table Maggie used earlier and wheels it across to me. "There yeh go, hen."

"Thanks." Dropping the tray on the polished top she whips away the cloth covering the tray's contents.

Just as my nose told me. But there's an extra. Sat in a dish and still quivering from the movement of the tray is a bunny made from green jello. I stare at it, unbelieving, mesmerised by its presence. A fucking jello rabbit. It's sickly cute, it's quivering and it's on my tray. A fucking green fucking jello motherfucking rabbit! The ultimate fucking humiliation.

"What's that?"

Rogue giggles. She thinks I'm funning. "It's a jello bunny."

"I can see that. What's it doing on my tray?" The effort not to swear out loud is almost too fucking much.

"Well, it's kinda just sitting there, Logan. Sorta waiting for ya t'eat it."

"Do I look like the type of candy-ass pansy that eats jello rabbits?"

"Mah Mom used ta give it me when Ah was ill. Jello's real nice."

A fucking jello rabbit! I shove the dish in her direction. "Then it's all yours kid." I'm gonna have a few choice words with Maggie. Sometimes a guy can be pushed too far.

"I brung ya some beer too."

Beer? Suddenly things are looking up. "Ya brought beer?"

"Right here." Rogue pulls a squat brown bottle out of her jacket pocket. Can't see the label 'coz her hand's obscuring it Bottle's on the small side but a lot of imported beers come in small bottles.

Reaching over I demand, "Gimme."

Moira beats me to it. "Oh no yeh don't. Nae alcohol, Logan and nae exceptions. Rogue, will yeh hand it over please?"

Horrified I watch Rogue hand over the bottle. Moira reads the label and then laughs quietly. "Och, I have nae exceptions tae this beer."

Suspicions aroused I ask, "Ya don't?"

Holding bottle by its neck she reveals the label – _Old Jamaica Ginger Beer_. I've seen the stuff before. Maggie drinks it occasionally. It's a bottle of fucking soda!

Chicken broth, jello rabbits and soda. My growing anger erupts into a seething rage.

"Are ya trying to drive me fucking insane?" I round on the red haired bitch. Ya fucked up my healing factor and now ya gonna treat me like some little fucking kid?"

"Logan. What d'yeh think yeh doing, man? This is nae like yeh. Think about what it is yer saying. Yer frightening Rogue."

Like I give a shit. "Ya know what, sister? Fuck you. Ya don't know me. None of ya knows what I really am. Ya sure as hell don't understand what makes me tick. And that's how you and the snark queen fucked me up a real treat, didn'tcha."

The kid backs away, shock pale like the white hair framing her face, trembling and tears dribbling down her cheeks. "Logan, please don't talk to Moira like that. She's just trying to help y'all. This is so not you."

"Ya think so, sweetcheeks? Well neither is this shit." I sweep the tray of the table and it makes a satisfying din as it crashes to the floor in an explosion of broth, jello and broken pottery.

"You're scaring me, Logan."

"Yeah, well now ya starting to see what I'm really like don'tcha kid."

The beeps from the monitor have increased and grown irregular. Every single beep's like a nail being driven into my aching head. Gotta shut the sucker off. Gotta pull off the wires.

Moira moves and her hands grip my arms, trying to prevent me ripping off the wires. "Logan, don't." Violently I shake her grip loose but it costs me. Dizziness engulfs me, makes the room spin, leaves me weak and gasping. Unable to escape I'm vulnerable, cornered. Unthinking reflex pops the claws. The pain is excruciating and I watch, horrified, as blood soaks the bandages over my knuckles.

"Rogue leave. Now! Press that red button on the wall and get yersel' away." Rogue hesitates and Moira demands in a low voice heavy with urgency, "Get gone girl." Rogue bolts. Moira backs away from me, fearful but frustrated. Inside my head a voice is screaming at me. Telling me to back the fuck off. I scared Rogue. I'm scaring Moira. My animal's not in charge but I can't help myself. The rage won't stop. Please make it stop.

"What's happening to me?" I roar. Am I losing my fucking mind?

Moira's talking to me but I can't make sense of anything she's saying. She might as well be speaking a foreign language. Heart's beating fit to burst. I'm trembling all over but whether it's rage or shock I can't tell. Salt and metal; I can taste blood in my mouth. Did I bite myself? Claws won't retract. Can't sum up enough energy to put the fuckers away. Then nausea hits me like a sledgehammer and I begin to heave my guts up. Twisting around I hang my head over the side, trying not to impale myself, as strings of slimy bile dribble from my mouth and drip on the floor to mix with the spilled food. Flecks of bright red and dull brown look ugly against the greenish bile. Blood drips from my hands and forms inkblots of arterial red on the floor Rage dissipates to be replaced by icy fear. The symptoms are worsening.

"Logan?"

All I can do is groan my response.

Moira is frantically grabbing stuff from various shelves. "Can yeh put the claws away, man? I need tae stop the bleeding."

The nausea passes as quickly as it came. "Wanna. Can't," I mumble. Trying to focus my concentration away from the stomach spasms is hard but I work at it. I'm rewarded with the sensation of the claws slipping back into their sheaths. Moira is at my side at once and begins cutting away the sodden dressings. She winces as the gaping wounds are revealed. "Dear God." Working quickly she covers both sets of wounds with gauze and binds them. "That'll do for a few minutes until I can deal with the injuries properly. Can yeh hold yeh hands up to help stem the bleeding?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Her hand feels cool as she touches my face and forehead. "Yer feverish. Open yer mouth."

"What?" I'm bleeding like a stuck pig and she wants to take my temperature?

"Please do as I ask." Taking a surgical glove from a nearby receptacle she puts it on and begins to examine the gums around my teeth. She presses on the skin and I taste fresh blood. Peeling the glove off and disposing of it she checks out my eyes. "How're yeh feeling, Logan?"

"Like crap."

"Yer symptoms, man. Describe them." So I do. As I rattle off my woes she begins another trawl through cupboards and cabinets.

"What's wrong?"

"I think yeh suffering from adamantium poisoning. Yer symptoms are certainly consistent with certain types of metal poisoning. At least it explains a few things that have been puzzling me. Ya have tae understand that adamantium poisoning is so rare no one knows much about it. The urine and stool sample will help me tae confirm the diagnosis and I'll need tae take more blood."

More? Like I ain't lost enough already? Trying not to reveal how fucking scared I am I resort to cool and casual.

"So I'm cutting edge medicine, huh? Should be able to get a paper outta me at least. Waddaya reckon?" My chuckle turns into a hacking cough and I begin to choke. Suddenly she's rubbing my back vigorously. Can't make up my mind whether she's being comforting or helpful. Either way I don't want it. Too weak to be effective I totally screw up on shoving her away.

"Take it easy, laddie. Try not to cough too hard," she instructs as she continues to rub my back. Easier said than done. I can feel the mucous slithering upwards as I hack away like a consumptive.

Coupla pairs of heavy footfalls echo along the hall outside med-lab and suddenly Summers and that metal kid burst into the room. Through my watering eyes I can see Summers' hand clamped to his visor's control. The Russian kid stands behind him, dwarfing Summers with his bulk. Bringing muscle like that along I guess old One-Eye's looking for a fight. Shame I gotta disappoint him.

"Moira, what the hell's going on? Rogue's having seven kinds of fit upstairs. Said Logan went nuts and pulled his claws on you both." His visored gaze surveys the mess of food and broken crockery on the floor and then takes in the scene on the bed. He stops dead and simply stares. Beneath his adrenaline fuelled outrage there's another emotion stirring. I'd lay odds the bastard's enjoying the view; just savouring the moment. Wonder if he'd be as amused if I sank my claws into his gizzard?

"What the fuck you staring at?" I gasp. "Ya never seen anyone coughing before?"

I'm past embarrassment. Just appalled at what I did and said. I hope I can make it up to Rogue is all.

"Scott, will yeh make yersel' useful. Put on some surgical gloves and break out some of that gauze for me. I have tae deal with these wounds and stem the bleeding."

Summer's looks daggers at me. Guess he don't like the evidence he's seeing. Ain't he noticed there's no corpses lying around? Can't he see the only bastard bleeding is me?

"Ya heard the nice doctor, Nurse Summers. Jump to it." Another fit of coughing takes me and this time the spasms light a fire in my gut.

"The gloves are in the dispenser on the wall over there." Moira gestures in the general direction. "Bring a fresh pair for me too please. Quickly now."

Summers frowns and puckers his lips like he's got a nasty taste in his mouth. "Uh, yeah. Okay."

Gotta give the guy this. He does quickly now like a pro. Shoving his hands into the gloves I hear the rubber snap tightly over each of One-Eye's wrists. He walks to the bed holding both hands up and away from his body like he's seen one too many medical dramas. Jerk. He's clutching the spare pair of surgical gloves in one hand which hang limp, their flaccid fingers looking like a bunch of little wiener condoms. A piece of broken plate crunches beneath his feet. He looks down at the ground and then directly at me, not trying too hard to conceal his contempt.

"What the hell were you thinking when you unsheathed your claws on Moira and Rogue?"

All I can do is glare at him 'coz I ain't got no answer. Simple truth is I lost it. I lost my temper over a stupid jello rabbit and the claws gatecrashed the party before I knew what I was doing.

Moira takes the gloves from Summers and puts them on. Scissors in hand she carefully removes one of the temporary dressings. "Piotr?" She says without looking up.

The steel guy who's standing near the door, bodybuilder arms folded across his massive chest, his gaze fixed on yours truly, almost snaps to attention when he replies, "Yes Doctor MacTaggert?"

"Can you please arrange for someone to clean up the mess on the floor?"

"Da, of course." The kid turns on his heal and leaves.

"You didn't answer my question, Logan."

"This is nae the time for recrimination, Scott. There are more urgent priorities and I don't want Logan more stressed than he already is so I ask yeh kindly, _please do not_ antagonise him. Pass me one of those swabs will yeh?"

At Moira's mention of stress, One-Eye's expression goes blank. I can smell inner turmoil shot through with strange flashes of formless satisfaction. Fearless leader wouldn't laugh. No way. Not openly. It wouldn't be appropriate behaviour for the primo X Man. I like to think that somewhere inside the dickweed's condescending, immaculate, exterior whose spine's held unnaturally rigid by a ramrod inserted asswise, is a kernel of humanity who would find amusement in the mighty Wolverine being stressed out. And if the bastard rears his metrosexual head and puts even a ghost of a smile on Beam Boy's lips he is so fucking dead already.

"You could have hurt them or worse, Logan."

"Well he didn't," Moira informs him. Mild anger lends her voice an acidic edge which isn't lost on Summers. Exasperated by Moira's failure to see his point, his lips settle into that familiar severe line. Ain't saying nothing 'coz I got misgivings about me too. I popped my claws on Rogue, for Chrissake.

Having dispensed with her severity Moira informs me apologetically, "This might not smell particularly nice, Logan." Moira loads a swab with Betadine and its acrid, iodine odour sears the sensitive membranes in my nose and throat.

"Jeezus, Moira.!" I choke out. "Couldn'tcha find a concoction that stinks better'n that?" Ain't gonna flinch or whine. I'm used to worse pain but damn, this hurts. But the stink's worse.

"Sorry. I'll get this over with as quickly as possible."

As Moira wipes away the blood to reveal the raw tissue Summer's complexion pales. I grin at him, baring my teeth and watch as he recoils. Running my tongue over my teeth and gums I lick away the tiny flecks of blood. I can only imagine what my gory grin looks like to him. Certainly has an effect. I do it again but he's prepared and just looks stony. Pity.

"Heard this nasty rumour that ya ain't letting Jessie see me," I say conversational like. Jeez, if this guys expression gets any stonier ya could call him Cliff.

"It isn't a rumour. We don't know anything about her so I'm not granting her access to the complex."

That's a pile of crap! "No, _you_ don't know anything about her. Why is that? Yer've had time to check her background out a dozen times over. What's with the fucking delay?"

"Checking out her antecedents is not a priority. You only met her a few days ago and you've only spent hours, that's _hours_ Logan, in her company. She's not even a mutant. She's…

"X Factor positive. Her brother's a mutant."

"And you take her word for that?"

"Don't need to. I can smell a lie and she wasn't lying. I can also smell her latency."

Summers snorts his disbelief. "And I'm supposed to be assured by that? She's a looker, I'll grant you, but you're letting her fuckability cloud your judgement."

"Grrrahhhrr!" I'm gonna kill him.. I'm gonna rip him six ways from fucking Sunday. And then I'm gonna dance on his fucking entrails. The claws of my right hand shoot out but before I can sink 'em into flesh Summers springs backwards, beyond my reach, his feet slipping in the mess on the floor. I watch his arms windmill as he fights for balance. Recovering quickly – damn he's fast – he slaps his hand to his visor control and I steel myself for the concussive blast that's sure to follow. My energy's spent. All I can do is snarl my defiance, an empty gesture I ain't got a hope in hell of backing up.

"No!" Moira's yell rings in my ears, it's severe enough to give Summers pause. Then she's on her feet, placing herself between me and the combat ready Catwalk Boy.

"Get away from him, Moira. There's only one way to deal with a feral rage."

Moira's fit to spit but she tempers her anger, limiting it to a scathing rebuke. "What the hell d'yeh think yeh doing, laddie? Didn't I ask yeh not tae antagonise him? Stand down for God's sake."

"What? That animal just made a serious attempt to run me through and you're telling _me_ to back off?

"That's it, asshole. Hide behind a woman. If I had the strength to get off this fucking bed it wouldn't save ya." My voice drips with contempt and then chokes off as another fit of coughing seizes me. Who the fuck does he think he is? No one speaks about Jessie like she's some hooker. And certainly not to my face.

Suddenly Moira's back at my side, her body language agitated by a growing sense of urgency. "Logan, for God's sake put those claws away. You can't afford to lose anymore blood."

"Get that bastard out of here first," I manage to squeeze out as I struggle for breath.

"Look at him, Moira. He's certifiable. The lunatic should be in restraints."

"You're wrong on all counts. He's critically ill He's a feral. He's on edge. And he's not exactly himself right now. That gives him a hair trigger which I would oblige you not to pull."

"But he's out of his mind!"

"And your comments are out of hand. Now either leave or co-operate and do as I ask."

"Fucktard comes near me I'll gut him," I warn.

"There's nae need for that. Scott didn't mean what he said."

"Yes he did. He couldn't fucking help himself."

"You can't reason with him when he's like this…"

Pressed to the extreme limit of her patience, Moira explodes. "Will yeh quit this ridiculous pissing contest both o' yeh! Yer behaving like a couple o' squabbling brats. You," she points at Summers, "Back off right now. As for you," Moira turns to face me and I can see a dangerous glint in her eye. Boy is she pissed. "Are yeh going tae sheath the claws and let me stop the bleeding? Or is it yer plan to have me watch while yer life seeps away?"

Put like that she has a point. Chastised and chagrined I mutter, "'Kay," and do as she asks. Claws sheathed I stare at the gaping, bleeding wounds. Having little or no healing factor really sucks.

"I'll get some more swabs," Summers announces as blood dribbles down my fingers and drips onto me and the bed. I can feel patches of wet warmth spreading across my thighs as the sweat pants material absorbs my vital fluid. The coppery smell of blood adds a sickly undertone to the stench of the Betadine.

Breathing a sigh of relief Moira mutters, "Thank you," as she sets to work on my mangled knuckles once more.

Boy Scout plucks sealed packs out of the dressings cabinet and stuffs them into the crook of his left arm. The rigidity of his posture hasn't relaxed one iota and I see his chest rise and fall as he takes a deep breath.

"Logan, I can appreciate you wanting to see your friend but surely you, of all people, are aware of the crucial need to maintain security. Visitors to the school are one thing but revealing what we are to any Tom, Dick or Jessica who walks through the door I can't condone. Frankly, I'm amazed you're making an issue of this."

Rounding on him Moira snaps out, "Yeh got cloth ears or something? What part of give it a rest isnae sinking in?" An angry Moira is a sight to see when her fit of spleen is focused on someone else. I enjoy the show and then join in.

"'Unless it's slipped yer memory, Stryker's little soiree made CNN and just about every other major news network. Half the fucking western world knows where we are and what we are. I ain't demanding that ya give her a guided tour of the facility or the blueprints to all of Charlie's fancy gizmos. All she's gonna see is a lift, a hall and the fucking med-lab." I need her ya stupid ass pimple. Why can'tcha understand that?

Summers bows his head, jaw muscles pulsating as he grinds his teeth. He looks almost contemplative. I wonder what hell he can imagine me burning in. Can't be any worse than the one I'm in now. Unless it's one where I'm forced to wear the same clothes he does.

"The Professor and Ororo will be flying back from Washington later tonight." His tone, is flat, controlled. I sense little or no compromise in it. "If he is not exhausted and if he considers your seeing Jessica a priority, then scanning her will be the quickest most effective way to authenticating her background. Doing it the old fashioned way will take a lot longer. Come the morning I'm sure you and she will be making eyes at each other over your oatmeal."

Is that what ya think? Think again! "Ya can do better than that fuck-face. You get her down here now or I'll crawl outta here on my hands and knees if I have to."

Moira's reaction to my threat is swift. "You'll do nae such thing, laddie." She pauses and gazes around the lab thoughtfully. A piece of swab sinks deeply into one of the gashes. Ow already. "Scott, is there anything here that's classified, anything that a civilian shouldnae see?"

"No, I don't think so. It's just medical equipment."

"Yer only objection is tae revealing there's a facility beneath the school?"

"Yeah, I suppose it is. Where's this leading?"

I know exactly where it's leading. There's only one way to get Jessie into med-lab without breaching security. Can't believe I didn't think of it myself. I chuckle but it emerges as a breathless wheeze. "It means the lady is better at thinking outside the box than you are, limp dick." I look at Moira. "Ya think the Elf'll mind?"

"D'yeh have any objections tae Kurt teleporting directly into med-lab wi' the lassie?

"I have one big objection," he grates. "I'm not happy with an unknown quantity being so close to Cerebro and other sensitive installations."

"Damn door has a security code don't it? What's the objection if she can't leave the med-lab?"

Summers falls silent, mulling over what I said. I know he's reached the right decision when some of his uptight rigidity softens to a more natural posture.

"Very well. I'll put aside my objections providing she stays this side of the door and leaves the same way she arrived."

Finally! "What ya waiting for? Get Elf on the phone."

"Not yet," Moira intervenes. "I need tae suture these wounds, take some blood, set up a saline IV to prevent yeh getting dehydrated and get yeh cleaned up. Yer a mess, Logan. D'yeh want tae frighten the lassie?"

"No." Sutures're gonna take too long and they'll hurt. "No catgut. Ya got any superglue?"

Summers stares at me like I've lost my mind. All Moira does is smile knowingly. "I'll take a look."

"Superglue? You can't be serious, Moira. Tell me you're just humouring him."

"Not at all. In the jungles of Vietnam, miles away from any medical facilities, superglue was used to close even the most serious puncture wounds whenever possible. Not everyone survived of course but it saved a lot of lives."

"I didn't know that."

"Yeh'll have tae get it for me. If there is any, yeh'll probably find it in the supplies store. Check the inventory, it's hanging from a hook near the door."

Summers pads over to the store where Moira found the wheelchair earlier, opens the door and disappears inside. A couple of minutes later he emerges carrying a small plastic container. Silently he hands it over.

"Here yeh go, Logan. Jean certainly kept her supplies well stocked. Dinnae fash yersel' Scott. It's special surgical glue."

Fascinated, Summers watches Moira wipe away excess blood and deftly glue the raw edges together. He disposes of the soiled wipes into a small medical hazmat receptacle.

"Ain't you supposed to wear a dress and a cute hat to do stuff like that?" I enquire.

The muscles along Summers' jaw are twitching but, like a good little soldier, he don't rise to the bait.

"Logan, behave yersel', " Moira chides gently.

"I always behave, darlin', but can I help it if it's all bad?"

"Yeh impossible!"

"I hope so."

During the procedure a girl from housekeeping arrives to clean up the mess on the floor. She works quickly and efficiently, trying hard not to see what's going on with my hands. Moira thanks her as she leaves.

Wounds sealed, Moira dresses both hands with fresh gauze and bandages. Before finishing dressing my right hand she switches off the heparin syringe and changes the canula for a larger one with more outlets. "For the saline drip," she explains. "There yeh go, Logan. Let's try tae keep those claws where they belong, shall we?"

"'Kay. Thanks." She's about to reconnect the drip when I announce, "I need to pee."

"Sure. The urinal is over there, Scott."

Summers saunters over to the corner Moira indicated and makes a show of handing me the piss bottle which I snatch out of his hand.

"That ain't what I meant."

"I know. Will it help if we go into the office and give you privacy?"

"Fuck!" I say with extreme prejudice. Where's the dignity in all this? I don't mind taking a leak behind a tree. Done it more times'n I can count. But this? "Fuck!"

"We'll take that as a yes, Moira. After you," One-Eye says opening the office door with a flourish. Jerk-off. He's just the type to throw himself over a puddle and let a woman walk all over him.

Both of them retreat into the office, closing the door behind them while I take a leak. The liquid in the bottle looks dark, more like orange juice than piss.

"I'm done," I growl and glower at the pair of them as they return to the main part of the lab.

Moira takes the bottle over to the work station pours a little of its contents into a dish. Taking a testing strip from a tube container she dips it in the dish and then checks the result; frowns.

"Well?"

"I've seen better."

Great. Thanks Moira. Nothing like explaining things clearly. She takes a vial out of the drugs locker and prepares a hypodermic.

"What's that?" I ask, suspicious that it might be a sedative.

"Edetate calcium disodium. It's a chelating agent."

I had to ask. Maybe one more question will get me an answer I can understand. "What's that in English?"

"It's a substance that will attract and bind molecules of metal so that it can be flushed out o' yer body naturally. Unfortunately, since the source of the contamination is endemic to your system, I cannae guarantee this treatment will halt the progress of the poisoning."

She carries the hypodermic over to me and injects directly into the canula.

"Scott, will yeh prepare a basin o' warm water. Yeh'll find herbal toiletries in the bathroom.

After disposing of the hypo in the sharps bin she makes a note on my chart before reconnecting the heparin and taking another blood sample. Then she sets up the saline IV and hooks me up to that as well.

Summers emerges from the shower room with Maggie's delirium coloured bag in one hand and with the other holding up a bottle of herbal gel to the light and reading the label. Then he looks at me, a quizzical expression on his face.

"What?" I growl.

"Nothing," he replies.

"Make sure ya keep it that way."

"I can recommend a good moisturiser…"

"Scott!" Moira's eyes are narrowed. Last time I saw a look like that was on a pissed off mountain lion.

"And I'm sure Moira can recommend a good emergency proctologist to ya." I ain't offended. That moisturiser crack slipped through a chink in the Fearless Leader's Captain Anal suit. Maybe there's hope for him yet.

Coupla minutes later the bed table is set up for my clean-up.. Although I manage to clean my own teeth, Moira insists on sponging me down for fear of getting the fresh dressings wet. I draw the line at her drying me off though. Reckon it looks too much like babying from One-Eye's point of view. The mattress cover beneath me is replaced and finally, Moira helps me slide into a fresh pair of sweats. She chucks the bloodstained stuff into a steel hamper.

"I'm thirsty."

"I'll get you a glass of water." When Moira hands it too me I drain it in several gulps. "More?" I nod and she refills the glass. I drain that too.

Throughout the procedure, Summer's props himself against a wall unit, arms folded across his chest, looking bored.

"Ain't there something ya should be doing with a phone?"

"First things first. There are conditions you must agree to."

"And they are?" I ask warily.

"Moira?" Summers invites her to speak first.

"Jessie will only be able tae visit for fifteen minutes, Logan. Yeh can see her again in the morning."

Fifteen minutes? I'll agree to that just to get her down here but only 'coz I intend to negotiate for extra time. Don't wanna make 'em suspicious by giving in too easily though.

"Fifteen minutes? She's been waiting for two fucking days and all she gets fifteen minutes?"

"We'll see how yeh get on, okay?" That's more like it.

"Moira and Kurt will remain in the med-lab at all times," Summers chips in.

"Now wait a fucking minute…"

"That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

I'll take him and leave him bleeding out. Just wait 'til I get outta here. "Ya ain't leaving me with much choice are ya."

"I'm not taking any chances. One last thing. Pop the claws and I'll have you restrained and sedated."

"Ya can't do that."

"If you give me reason to consider you're a danger to the school then yes, I can."

Summers is winding me up. I look to Moira for confirmation but her face remains neutral.

"Okay, yer conditions are acceptable. For now. But only 'coz I'm a reasonable guy. Times a wasting, One-Eye. Ya gonna use the damn phone?"

Summers picks up the receiver and keys in a number. He waits. After what seems like a decade someone on the other end picks up.

"Hello? Bobby? Is Kurt nearby? Good, put him on please." Three more decades elapse and a major empire falls. "Kurt? About that suggestion we discussed earlier? Yes, that's the one. Well can you bring Jessie down as soon as you locate her? Thanks." He replaces the receiver in its cradle.

"What?" he asks as he becomes aware that both mine and Moira's eyes are firmly fixed on him.

"I though ya said ya were against Jessie coming down."

"I am. But earlier today Kurt suggested he could 'port Jessie down here. I said I'd think about it."

Elf suggested it? Boy have I got the blue fella marked down wrong. I'm gonna buy the guy a beer when I get outta here. And if his religion don't condone the drinking of alcohol then I'll drink both beers in his honour. Maybe I can help him work on his back yer buddy up in a fight thing too.

Pity he smells like one of Beelzebub's farts though.

-o0o-

Seconds after Summers leaves Kurt bamfs in with Jessie. She's looking green around the gills and just a little shocked but otherwise okay. I try not to breath before the smoke dissipates.

Momentarily confused by the sudden relocation, Jessie surveys her surroundings finally settling her gaze on me.

"Logan? Oh my god. What happened to you?"

Jeezus! How bad to I look? "No worries, baby. The Mack truck came off worse."

Jessie's a sight for sore eyes. Even in jeans and a baggy shirt she looks a million dollars. I sneak a glance at Kurt but don't catch him ogling her. Maybe he's only got eye for 'Ro. Suits me.

"I missed you, scrapper," Jessie purrs in that sensuous voice of hers. Just listening to it evaporates my irritability. Pausing to grab a handy chair she drags it across the floor and places it next to the bed. Leaning over me she brushes her lips across my cheek, her breath warm and moist against my skin. The stink of bamf smoke adhers to her clothing, its brimstone reek sickly and disturbing. I fight hard to swallow my gorge and protect what's left of my tattered dignity. It's touch and go for a few distressing moments but I win this round. Jessie's close proximity sends my heart rate up, same with the corresponding beeping Apparently unaware of the significance, Jessie sinuously folds herself into the chair.

"I missed ya too sweetheart," I reply as soon as I'm sure only words are gonna fall out of my trap. "These buncha losers been treating ya right?" I don't smile. Don't wanna frighten her with the sight of my bleeding gums. That means I can't kiss her either. Fuck.

"They've been really nice to me, especially Maggie, Moira and Kurt. Your friends are nice people. They made me feel welcome."

"That's good." Elf just earned as much beer as he can drink. Unless I find out he's been putting moves on my girl.

Moira and Elf retreat into the office and leave the door slightly ajar affording Jessie and me as much privacy as they can. It's their one concession to obeying One-Eye's chaperone clause. Summers would suffer a blue fit if he could see how bent out of shape his rules are. Maybe he can. I give the finger to the security camera that, coincidentally I'm sure, is pointing directly at me and Jessie. A small light on the camera glows a baleful, unblinking red. Just like someone I know.

"What are you doing?"

"Just saying hello."

She laughs. Beneath the worry, the relief and the bamf stink, Jessie smells reassuringly sexy. So what's happened to the expected rush from the supercharged pheromones? Can't be such a turn on when I'm hooked up to a lot of medical crap. Just as well really coz' right now I don't even have the strength to raise a fucking cheer. And that really hurts.

Jessica examines my bandaged hands before exploring the livid scars on my left arm with soft, tentative fingertips. "These look like bite marks. And your poor neck."

"I found myself on the receiving end of a feral anxiety attack. Probably my fault. I had to've been a dumb fuck for letting the situation get out of control."

Jessie snakes her arm behind me and leans in close. I take a silken strand of her hair in my fingers and breath in its sweet fragrance. She's changed her shampoo to a natural one and I like it's vaguely spicy fragrance.

Twisting her head around she looks up at me. "Those horrible dark circles around your eyes make you look so pale, Logan."

"Thanks." That's just what I need. Maybe letting her see me like this wasn't such a good idea after all. I ain't got clue one what to say to her. Actually I have but I'm gonna save that for when there ain't no one else around.

"Can ya believe they won't let me have a beer? Don't suppose ya brought one did ya?"

"Cecilia was quite specific about the no contraband rule. Sorry. I left six AOTs cooling off in the refrigerator though. Maggie's sworn to guard them with her life."

"She'll have her work cut out then, there's a lot of kitchen commandos 'round these parts." That raises a quiet laugh. God, I wish I could crush my lips to hers. Taste her. Then I think of bloody teeth and the moment quickly passes.

"Soho overheard Maggie talking to Sal. He sends his regards."

I'll bet he did. "That so? Tell him fuck off back for me will ya?"

"How did you…"

"He's an outlaw, Jessie. Just like me."

She smiles. "He's nothing like you."

She's got that right. "Sal still holding up to his promise? Maggie persuading him to see reason without a wad of bills to grease his palm has gotta be a first."

"I suppose." Her expression grows serious. "Might not need to rely on the little weasel for much longer though. Oconus has offered me a six month contract."

Shit! "Ya gonna take it?"

"Last week I would have snapped their hands off but now…"

"I don't want ya to go Jessie." The thought of losing ya now that's I've found ya is too much, kid. "I'll talk to Charlie when he gets back. He's already agreed in principle to engaging a martial arts instructor."

The meeting. I remember it. I remember driving back to Westchester in the storm the following day. Memories cascade into place, their return catalyzed by Jessie's presence. Can't remember arriving back at the school through. Everything between driving along back lanes to avoid fallen trees and waking up in med-lab is a complete blank. I try and reach for the missing hours but all I find is a void. Damn.

Cool fingers brush my face, distracting me from my reverie. "Logan, are you okay? That's some thousand yard stare you have."

Hadn't realised I was staring off into space. I focus my eyes on her brilliant blue ones. "'M okay. Just remembered something is all. Brain's been a bit scrambled but seeing you seems to have shaken stuff loose."

"Moira mentioned something about temporary amnesia but apart from that I have no idea what happened to you Logan."

That makes two of us. "Some real nasty shit happened after my healing factor got fucked up. Soon as it returns I'm outta here."

"Then let's hope it returns sooner rather than later, huh?"

"Yeah." I pat the bed. "Come here, darlin;. I need to hold ya, to breathe ya in."

"I'm not sure about that. What if the IVs accidentally get pilled out?"

"I am and they won't. C'mere."

Jessie rises from her chair and settles sensuously into the space I've made for her. Taking her in my arms I rest my head on her chest, close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of her heart. My senses drink her in and I moan softly as her long fingers run through my hair and stoke my face. She smells and feels so good I just want to loose myself in her. Her physical presence gives me something that neither Moira nor Maggie could for all their concern and friendship. Jessie makes me feel whole, worthy; more than the animal I've grown accustomed to being. An energy flows between us, a force beyond passion, beyond the need for physical gratification. A heightened awareness in which, I swear, I can almost hear what she's thinking.

No need for speech. Words are too clumsy an instrument to spoil the moment. Her scent, her touch, her very presence, tells me all I need to know. Everything else is irrelevant. The beating of her heart is hypnotic. Listening to it I feel my mind drifting to a plane of existence I never knew existed. So peaceful here. Safe. A haven for my battered spirit.

And I'm so tired.

So very, very tired.

-o0o-

Awareness returns but it's slow; reluctant. painful. Jessie. She ain't here. When the hell did she leave? Her fading scent informs me she left at least two hours ago. Shit, did I fall asleep on her? Muffled female voices speaking in hushed tones, at least three of them. That tallies with the fresh scents of Moira, Maggie and Snarky. They're in the little office off the main lab. Door's closed. Ain't enough to fox my sensitive ears though.

"…the early stages of renal and hepatic failure. Tests reveal some GI bleeding which will worsen as the symptoms become more acute. His inability to manufacture blood cells naturally makes even minor haemorrhaging potentially life threatening."

That's Moira speaking and it don't take an empath to read the strain in her voice. She's talking about me of course but I'm struggling to get my woozy head around what she's saying. Renal and hepatic I understand but what the fuck is GI? Whatever it is I don't like the sound of it.

"But what about his healing factor?" Maggie must be reading my mind. I wanna know about it too. Tell her Moira. Tell her what ya gonna do to reverse this clusterfuck. Ain't Moira who answers though.

"What little is left of it has been overwhelmed. The slow but steady progression of the adamantium poisoning is a solid indicator that Logan is currently losing the fight. Moira's trying to retard the effects using ECD and initial signs are encouraging but with the metal endemic to his system it's a temporary stopgap rather than a solution."

The snark queen sounds distinctly unhappy. So she should. This is her fucking fault. Has she succeeded where so many others failed? Is she gonna be the death of me?

"Logan's blood is the closest thing to the elixir of life I've ever seen," Moira adds. "It is almost an organism in it's own right, sharing a symbiotic relationship with its host. The adamantium encasing his bones effectively prevents natural production of blood cells so his blood, his healing factor, does it for him while fighting off the effects of metal poisoning. For the last twelve hours his blood cell count has slowly reduced. I have not detected the presence of any new cells and the ones he has are being depleted by blood loss. If this continues his prognosis is very poor."

"How long?" Maggie asks, her voice wavering with emotion.

"If we can prevent further bleeding, ten days, probably less."

"Oh my God."

Moira's words emerge as a halting sigh but Maggie's are choked out. The three have fallen silent but the stink of despair and desperation filtering through the cracks in the door tell me everything I need to know.

Disbelief. Shock. Rage. All these terrible emotions blow through me like a dark, evil wind. My burning gut turns to lead, shrinking, collapsing in on itself, forming an organic singularity whose event horizon consists of undiluted fear that drags me down into its pitiless maw where nothing, not even hope, can escape. I don't want to die. Not like this; helpless; vulnerable. And I ain't gonna. If I gotta go then I do it on my terms.

Subdued, the conversation in the office continues and intrudes on my anguish.

"What about another transfusion? With his healing factor all but neutralised isn't it possible a second infusion of blood will work?" Maggie's voice is raw, almost demanding. I know she likes me but she's fighting my corner like I'm her flesh and blood or something.

"Although the healing factor has all but closed down there are still antibodies that will cause severe problems. Another transfusion reaction runs a high risk of weakening him substantially, perhaps even killing him. A transfusion of standard O Neg is the kill or cure option, the last ditch attempt when everything else has failed."

Snarky sounds gutted, mortified. She should stand in my fucking shoes.

"Is there nothing you can do?" Ain't much hope in Maggie's voice. She's way too stunned for optimism.

"We need to figure a way to kickstart what's left of the healing factor," Moira replies. "We haven't given up yet. We won't give up."

"You have to tell him."

Ya already have, Maggie. Now it's my turn to have a say.

"Hey, you lot skulking in the office. Get yer asses out here now!"

"Oh fuck! He's awake. He heard us."

You betcha sassy ass, Snark.

They file out of the office. First Moira, then Maggie and finally Cecilia.

"I want out of this rat hole now."

Moira shakes her head. I love the way her hair glints like fire. It reminds me of Jeannie. "That's not possible, Logan."

"The fuck it is. I've had enough. Yer've had yer shot and fucked up. No more experiments. No more educated guesses. I ain't gonna meet my end here, locked away deep underground in Charlie's claustrophobic bunker. I wanna see the sky, taste the night breeze, breathe fresh, clean air. I wanna go home."

Glycerine tears leave glistening trails down Maggie's plump cheeks and the moisture on her lashes makes her sorrowful eyes look larger. "This is your home, pet. I thought you knew that."

"This is just a place to stay, Maggie. Home is the mountains, the pine forests, the solitude of nature, the skies that stretch from horizon to infinity. I wanna go home to Canada."

**Love it or loathe it, please leave a review. Believe it or not, what you think really does matter to me. :0)**


	14. Hot Wheels and Real Deals

**Disclaimer: **Maggie and Jessica are mine. Ya know the rest.

I know that this chapter is way overdue but again, I plead mitigating circumstances. Very recently my family suffered a bereavement and I have had neither the time nor the heart to write until last week. However, I have been slaving away so I hope this latest chapter meets with your approval. Chapter 15 is almost complete and I expect to post that over the next couple of days.

Thanks to **Dee **(MidLifeCrisi) who once more kindly beta'd this chapter. Her continuing assistance on medical procedures has been a great help. Thanks a billion, sweetheart.

Thanks to **JoeGood2003,** **Dee** (MidLifeCrisis), **dayrunner 145**, **Dr. Nat, Joruk**,** Anna**, **bluebell** and last but certainly not least, **Taluliaka** (another double entry) for their encouraging reviews.

Apologies to Joruk for deleting your comment. Your speculation bulls-eyed onto a plot device I was seriously considering and I didn't want to spoil the surprises I had install. I didn't go with that plot option in the end but full marks to you for your very astute guess! Laffing.

**Chapter 14: Hot Wheels and Real Deals.**

Christ on a surf board!

Maggie's got her power cranked up to max and broadcasting on all channels; all of it directed at me. The benign, low wattage empathic stimulus she usually exudes is nothing more than a harmless psychic tonic, a cheerful encouragement. Not this time. Factor panic into the equation and ya end up with my senses and mind reeling beneath the sledgehammer of her need for me to reconsider, to calm down. It's taking all of my willpower not to buckle under the pressure of her smothering desperation. Can't afford for her to beat down my defences and crush my determination with her misguided good intentions. Gotta ride the empathic shockwave. Gotta seize control of the situation and get her to switch it off before my rage gets away from me.

"Maggie! If ya value our friendship then back the fuck off. Now! Yer bordering on hostile and I don't wanna hafta to hurt ya to get ya to quit, sweetheart."

She stares at me, appalled, wide eyed and pale. "Oh my," she whispers, her quavering voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry, pet. I didn't realise."

The oppressive compulsion to yield lifts, leaving me panting with the effort of resisting it. Never clearly understood before how much self-control Maggie exercises and I suspect that I ain't really felt the full force of what she's truly capable of. Set free of her moral constraints she could be a malign force in the world, enriching herself and enslaving people to her will with very little effort at all. I look upon her with new eyes and a much greater respect. Thank all the fucking gods there are she's on our side.

Moira, stern faced and clearly puzzled, looks from Maggie, to me and then back to Maggie as if following some weird tennis match only she can see.

"What just happened?"

"A mistake. Ain't that right, Maggie?"

Maggie's chagrin is plain for all to see. "I'm so sorry," she repeats. "My emotions ran away with me. Sometimes I forget how strong my empathy can be."

"'S okay sweetheart. Just don't do it again."

"I won't, I promise. But this notion you have of going to Canada. Is it really a good idea, pet?"

"Logan, listen tae Maggie. Yeh know what she's saying makes sense. I understand yer upset but let's not go overboard on this shall we?"

I can feel my slow burning anger boiling over. Bad timing Moira and completely the wrong thing to say. If yer trying to appeal to my sense of reason yer sadly wide of the damn mark.

"Let me make myself very clear. I am not spending another minute in this fucking tomb!" Delivery's perfect, just like automatic gunfire. Pity I go and spoil the effect by choking.

"Logan…"

Moira steps forward silencing Maggie with a sweeping gesture.

"Let me deal with this."

She's projecting a shockwave of her own. Anger. Bristling with it; a smouldering, red haired firebrand with emerald fire in her eyes. Down-turned lips and face glowing red as a smacked ass she bears down on me. Guess we've progressed beyond the stage of passive bedside manner. About damn time.

"Yeh soft in the head or something? Yer gonnae take yersel' off tae Canada are yeh? Yeh cannae even get tae the can under your own steam yeh barmpot. Can yeh not get it through yeh thick head that we're trying tae help yeh?"

Clapping my hands in a slow, deliberate manner I sneer, "Bravo. Outstanding performance. Give the lady a bouquet. For an encore maybe she can explain why the hell I should give a rat's ass about anything she says?"

"Because _we_ haven't given up even if yeh have."

That so. Lemme tell ya what I think, sister. "Gimme a fucking break. Ya tell me the Titanic's sinking yet all ya do is arrange the damn deckchairs. I don't want yer sympathy. I don't want yer advice. I sure as hell don't want yer tender ministrations. All I want is to get the fuck out of this hole."

Don'tcha think I've had my fill of subterranean torture chambers for Chrissake?

"We want you the fuck out of this hole too so why will yeh nae co-operate?"

"And do what? Sit here like a dumb shit while the life drains outta me? Take up knitting while you and that snarky cow in the corner scratch yer fannies 'coz ya haven't got a fucking clue what to do next? Ya don't need me here to do that. Maybe I won't make Canada but that ain't a reason not to be able to see the sky and feel the breeze on my face. Either I go upstairs right now or I pop the claws and finish what the kid started."

"I won't countenance this nonsense, Logan. It isnae going tae happen."

"Ya think I'm bluffing?"

"I think yer distraught."

"Think again!" One claw is all it'll take. As the index claw of my right hand punches through the bandages a crimson stain spreads outward from its base. "Ain't got nothing to lose."

The colour drains from Moira's face leaving it an unflattering whey colour. "Yeh've got everything tae lose, Logan." She's also modified her tone, uncertain about my motive. Clearly she ain't gonna give in.

"Like what? A lingering death penned in a steel lined hole in the ground? I'd sooner end it now. At least it'll be on my terms." Raising my hand I prepare to slash my throat. None of 'em are close enough to stop me. One way or another I'm outta this fucking torture chamber.

Maggie's panic returns causing her heart rate to rise and her pupils to dilate with fear. "Moira, Logan isn't bluffing," she warns, her voice tense. "The reading I'm picking up from him is extremely disturbing."

You tell her Maggie. Tell it exactly how it is. How far I'm prepared to go.

Moira ain't ready to quit though.

"What about Jessica?"

Low blow. But Jessie's better off not seeing me die an inch at a time if my healing factor fails to kick in.

"She won't be making eyes at me over the oatmeal. I'm through talking."

Taking out both the carotid and the jugular should do it. If my healing factor fails to deal with it I won't hardly even know I'm gone. Hope Jessica will understand. I tense my arm for the stroke.

"Moira!" Maggie's voice has risen a whole octave. The entire lab reeks of fear, tension and my determination to have my way whatever it takes.

"Wait!"

Moira's voice echoes off the med-lab's cold clinical walls and coalesces into an atmosphere of angry frustration. As tip of the claw lies cold against my neck I watch her struggle with the knowledge that I might, after all, carry out my threat. Take hardly any effort at all. All I have to do is apply a little pressure and jerk my arm downward. Claw's sharper'n any razor so it'll be the easiest thing in the world to achieve.

Fighting hard to retain her composure Moira draws a deep breath and runs fingers through her hair. A delicate film of perspiration beads her brow, cheeks and upper lip. The exterior signs of her panic fall away as the impersonal mask of the professional she surely is slips into place like a shield. The act don't fool me for a second 'coz her body chemistry and raised heartbeat tell me all I need to know.

A detached coolness replaces her anger. "Yer the most impossible man I've ever met and given my long association wi' Charles, believe me, that's an achievement."

"Yer stalling."

"What do yeh want me to do, Logan?"

"I want ya to let me go. I'm a feral, Moira, with instincts and senses keener than any animal. I need wide open spaces or at the very least a ringside seat. I can't handle being caged down here for much longer. 'Sides, if I'm dying what fucking difference does it make?" As I speak blood drips from my hand onto my bare chest. How much of my life is it worth? A minute? Maybe a painful hour?

The expression on her face is calculating, like she's a cat deciding whether to jump on me or simply pin me down with a paw. If it's designed to make me feel nervous, to make me reconsider my position, it fails miserably. Maybe she realises that because her posture relaxes.

"Rahne wouldnae like it either. Very well Logan, I'll make the arrangements but it's on the proviso yer current therapy continues. Is that acceptable?"

It'll do for now. "Yeah. Just get me the fuck outta here already."

"First I need tae fix the damage to yer hand so I'll be asking yer to put away the claw."

Fine by me but first I'll lay down some ground rules. "Not before I get yer word this'll happen. No tricks. Ya fuck me over and I'll…"

Frustration is overtaken by exasperation and she rolls her eyes and shoves her hands into the pockets of her labcoat. "Save it. Yeh have my word."

Maggie makes a move towards the door. "I'll arrange accommodation. I take it the first floor is preferable?" For a moment I think she's talking to me but her enquiry is aimed at Moira.

"Aye, as close tae the lift as possible. We may need access to med-lab in an emergency."

"I know just the thing. There's on old guest suite in the south wing being used as storage. Nothing more than a series of junk rooms at the moment but an important feature is the French window that gives access to a small terrace and the gardens. I'll have everything cleared so housekeeping can clean it out. I'll pressgang some of the older students for the task."

Maggie bustles past the other two women and halts next to the bed. Smiling at me kindly she says, "We'll have you out of here as quickly as we can, pet. Can you bear with it for two or three hours more?"

"If that's what it takes," I reply grudgingly. "Sooner would be nice."

"I'll see what I can do."

Just as she's about to leave I call after her. "Maggie?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, pet." Then she's gone.

"Logan." Moira's approaching with caution. "The claw if you please?"

"Uh, yeah." The claw, having served its purpose, slips quickly from view.

Cecilia, taut-faced and prudently silent, gathers the necessaries for the clean up - scissors, dressings, surgical glue and the god awful Betadine- arranges them on a metal tray and makes her way across the med-lab to me. Giving her the malevolent eye is enough to send her scuttling away after placing the tray on the mobile table. No smart mouth this time. Just guilt. Live with it sister 'coz if my healing factor fails, it's more'n yer've left me.

After snapping on surgical gloves Moira takes up my damaged hand and carefully cuts away the bloody bandages. "Third time today. I hope this isnae becoming a habit, Logan because it's one yeh cannae afford."

"Blah, blah, blah," I grouse turning away from her to glare some more at Snarky. She looks haggard, shoulders slumped. Part of me wants to go postal on her ass for what she's done. Part of me but not all of me. Locked away in a tiny compartment is a mote of sympathy for her predicament. A microscopic mote, I admit Ruled by her commitment to save lives she hadn't bargained on shit like this happening. She knew about my healing factor though. She shoulda left well enough alone.

"I'm obviously not needed here, Moira," Snarky announces in a subdued yet defiant voice. "I'll 'phone Hank from upstairs."

As she walks resolutely towards the door I call after her, "Hope Hank isn't another one of yer pending malpractice suits."

Cecilia's back stiffens in anger and her head whips around her beaded braids clacking together, face a mask of bitterness. "No, he's not," she snaps before storming from the room.

"Logan, that's nae very nice. Cecilia is a fine physician who doesn't deserve this unrelenting animosity from..."

"Oh please, yer breaking my heart."

Welding her lips together in a hard, disagreeable line she busies herself gluing my skin back together. I catch her piercing green eyes briefly searching my face and offer her my stoniest expression to work on. Recognising a lost cause she changes tack. "For yer information, Doctor McCoy is the world's leading expert on the X gene."

"So yer only second string then? Figures."

Ignoring the jibe Moira launches into her lecture as she reaches for a fresh bandage. "We've collaborated on several papers. Hank's work in this field is brilliant. He's agreed tae set aside the project he's working on and concentrate all his expertise on helping Cecilia and I bring you through this."

"That's nice. He take on all yer fucked up charity cases?"

This time her lips purse into a grimace and I know I'm getting to her. Voice laden with exasperation she continues, "There is nae fee involved. Hank is one of the original X Men and a feral just like yersel'; with a difference. Apart from being distinctly feline, blue, furry and a fine figure o' a man, Hank is cultured, polite, witty and of extremely pleasant disposition . In short, a _gentleman_."

With her last word delivered like a blow from a blunt instrument, Moira looks me straight in the eye and I recognise a challenge when I see one. This McCoy is everything I ain't. Trying to imagine a smart Sabretooth ain't doing any wonders for me. The image of Sabre dyed a fetching shade of baby blue is something special though.

Quirking my lips into a malicious smile I pick up the gauntlet. "A cat, huh? So tell me, Moira. Does this paragon lick his balls in public?"

-o0o-

The ambient temperature in med-lab is a comfortable seventy five degrees. Problem is Moira's chill factor renders the atmosphere distinctly arctic and right now she could favourably compete with Mister Frosty. I know my attitude's crap but I can't help myself. The animal is raging inside my head so better a verbal mauling than physical evisceration and it's taking all my will power not to rearrange someone's internal organs.

Head bowed over the desk as she writes up a report, Moira's keeping her back resolutely turned toward me. Anger and frustration hover about her like a taint, the subtle chemical odours souring the air. I can hear her measured breathing and the scritch of biro point against paper as surly sub tones to the muted but incessant beep of the ECG monitor. Glaring at her back is boring, especially as she refuses to turn around. Snarky hasn't returned. Neither has Maggie but I guess she's busy organising her clean-up squad.

Feeling like shit and distinctly on edge, I'm looking for a distraction. Moira's the only available target.

"Who else knows about my condition? That I might finally be dying? Apart from you, Maggie and the Snark Queen that is."

Refusing to turn and face me Moira says, "Her name is Cecilia, Logan. Or Doctor Reyes."

"Far as I'm concerned her name's shit. Who else Moira?"

Stopping barely short of slamming the pen to the desk Moira swivels in her seat and frowns disapprovingly at me over her spectacles. That must be some burr I shoved up her ass. "Doctor McCoy. Apart from that yer patient confidentiality is intact."

More than I can say for the rest of me. "Let's keep it that way then. Ya tell no one. Not Jessie. Not Rogue. Not the kid. Especially not Summers. No one. Ya got that?"

With a curt nod she replies, "Very well but it will be impossible keeping this from Charles."

Charlie's a psychologist which means he's sealed his thumbprint to the Hippocratic Oath. And he knows I'll make him eat his wheelchair if he pisses me off. "Him too then. No one else. I don't want anyone weeping and wailing over me. I don't want Beam Boy breaking into a sweat trying to be sincere. I particularly don't want anyone's fucking sympathy."

She shrugs. "People already know something's wrong. Speculation and rumour are rife."

"Which means they know fuck all. Anyone asks ya just give 'em the mushroom treatment. Ya know what that is?"

"Keep them in the dark and feed them bullshit?"

"Bingo! Knew you were a smart girl."

She leans back in her chair, a slight smile on her face. "I've nae problem keeping them in the dark, laddie. However, when it comes tae slinging bullshit I insist on taking a back seat tae the man wi' the claws and the big shovel."

-o0o-

I glare at the wheelchair. And then at Moira and Elf.

"No way in fucking hell are ya taking me upstairs in that thing." No way in fucking hell is anyone gonna see the Wolverine being pushed around by Papa Smurf. "He bamfed in here with Jessie why can't he bamf me upstairs?"

Shaking her head vigorously Moira explains, "Because the process is a trial of endurance for any bamfee who isnae Kurt. In your weakened condition the act of peeling a banana would be a trial of endurance. The answer is no."

Yer all heart ain'tcha Moira. "Then I'll walk."

"Yeh not a stupid man, Logan, so we both know yeh wouldn't make it as far as the door."

She's right. All I have is Hobson's choice. Fuck! Fuming about this ain't gonna get me outta here. "Then we do a Godiva. Ya know who she was?"

Surprised by my reference Moira displays a lopsided smile. "Of course. A pious medieval noblewoman who rode naked through the streets of Coventry so that the poor and starving of the town would nae have tae pay taxes. Nae one was allowed tae peek as she passed by."

"Then clear the decks, Moira. Anyone sneaks a peek I'll gut 'em."

"I'll do nae such thing. Yeh being unreasonable, Logan. And just a wee bit paranoid."

Bitch. This is payback, I'm sure of it. "Paranoid works for me."

"If this is about pride, using a wheelchair willnae dent yer fierce reputation one iota, laddie."

Nah, it'll cave it in completely. "There's gotta be another way."

Again she shakes her head. "There isnae another way." She pauses, knitting her eyebrows together in a frown. "I thought yeh wanted out of the med-lab. Yeh telling me yeh changed yer mind now?"

Aw what's the fucking use. "Let's do it. Hey, Elf."

"Ja Herr Logan?"

"Just Logan. I wanna see yer name listed in Guinness under land speed record. I'm talking Bonneville Flats here ya understand."

Blue guy chuckles. "I vill do my very best, mein freund."

"Ya like beer?"

"Natürlich."

"Me too. Let's go."

-o0o-

Never thought the opening of a lift door could be so fucking fraught with anxiety. Ain't nobody waiting for us but there's lots of very recent scents. It's early evening so there's plenty of people around. Too many to hope for the minor miracle of reaching my destination without being seen.

"Do me a favour will ya, 'Crawler? See if the coast's clear." The prospect of dying don't mean I'm gonna jettison my dignity if it can be avoided. A man's got pride if nothing else is left.

Elf studies me with those weird yellow eyes of his. "I vill do so because it is important to you. Believe me vhen I say…"

"This ain't gonna be a fucking sermon is it?"

Grinning he says, "Nein. I vould not presume…"

"Just so we're clear on that."

"The mighty Wolverine is no less mighty for his temporary infirmity."

"Ya mean temporary insanity don'tcha? I got to've had a slate loose to let Moira talk me into this."

"Ve must all make little sacrifices."

"Depends on how ya define little, don't it."

Elf peers circumspectly around the lift door turning his head to look both left and right. "The vay seems to be clear."

"Great. Engage warp drive and let's get this the hell over with."

"Jawohl, mein Capitain."

Elf hauls our asses at a fair lick, barely slowing down when we make the turn into the south wing. I try and hunch deeper in the wheelchair attempting to make myself look smaller or at least become more aerodynamic. Who the hell am I kidding? I resist the urge to pull the hood of my sweat top over my head but it's a close thing. There's another reason for urgency – the appalling stench of the renovations. It ain't diminished any since I've been down below and it's knocking me sick to the gut. Remarkably, the halls are free of kids and staff. I at least expected Summers' brooding presence but I can't even detect any residue of a recent scent. Whatever's been going on he either don't know or has stayed away. Seems likely no one's informed him of the stroke I pulled in the med-lab otherwise he'd be in my face and chewing my ass off already. Of course, he could be waiting for me to get where I'm going.

Just a few more yards and I'll be home free. Suddenly a door opens a little way down the hall. Shit, I knew this was too good to last. An audible sigh of relief bursts from me as Maggie pops her head around the door frame and beckons.

"In here, boys."

Some deft manoeuvring from Elf gets me through the door and away from incidental prying eyes. I find myself in another, much smaller hall with limed oak panelling, burgundy carpet and several doors leading off both right and left. The place smells of dust, cleansing agents and disuse; an altogether kinder aroma than the one I've just left behind in the main hall. There are human scents too. Familiar ones including Rogue, Jessie and Mister Frosty. Guilt contracts my gut. Despite what I did to her Rogue lent a hand. I gotta make it up to the kid.

First things first. "Nice moves, Kurt."

"Danke." He executes an elaborate, gesticulating bow.

"Ya learn that in the circus?"

"Nein. From vatching old Errol Flynn movies."

He's gotta be kidding. I crook my finger, beckoning him closer. "Lemme give ya some advice. Do yerself a favour and don't never own up to being influenced by an asshole famous for stuffing a liver sausage down his tights."

Using the tip of his tail to scratch his head Elf quirks his lips into a smile. "I vill bear that in mind, Herr Vielfrass."

"Feel what?"

"Vhat ve call a wolverine in Bavaria."

"Logan ain't good enough for ya?"

"It vill do for now." Elf's grin reveals two rows of pointed teeth.

"See that barbed tail of yours? Why don'tcha take it and stick it up yer blue…"

"That's quite enough male bonding thank you gentlemen," Maggie snaps out, treating both of us to a half serious frown of warning. "Take Logan into the sitting room will you please, Kurt. I'll join you presently. "

"Natürlich."

The sitting room turns out to be panelled like the hall, hastily furnished with various rugs thrown over the scuffed floorboards, mismatched chairs and a sofa scattered with fat cushions liberated from the TV lounge. There's a roaring fire in the grate that casts shadows and flickering orange light around the dimly lit room. Best of all is the double French door and the bank of windows at one end of the room, several of which are slightly ajar to allow fresh air to circulate.

"Can ya take me over to the window, Elf?"

Kurt willingly complies, nudging a couple of chairs out of the way to make progress across the room easier. Gazing through the window reveals trees silhouetted against a western sky ablaze with the rosy afterglow of the recently set sun. Overhead, the slowly deepening twilight blue of the sky has skeins of high cloud limned red, orange and pink, the encroaching night casting their ass ends into livid purple shadow.

Damp earth, the nascent smell of growing things, and the boggy tang of the nearby lake shore invade the room on a seek and destroy mission to eradicate the musty odour of pervading the air. As I sit there drinking in the night scents, savouring it's many flavours, the cool draught idly caresses the exposed areas of my hot skin. I shiver, partly from the shock of the chilly air and partly through sheer relief.

"You are cold. Shall I close der vindows?"

Interfering, mealy mouthed asshole. "No. No. I want to go outside."

"I advise you not to do this…"

"Don't give a shit what you advise. I need to go outside." Using the back of a nearby chair as a brace I manage to haul myself out of the wheelchair and stand on unsteady legs, holding on to the chair while I wait for my head to stop spinning. Why does it still do that for Chrissake? Cursing my weakness I stagger the small distance to the French doors using whatever handholds I can. Turning the key in the lock is a simple, unchallenging exercise but the security bolts defeat me. Panting with the exertion I demand of Elf, "Open it."

Firelight does strange things to his yellow eyes, makes them look like little flames in his head; shadows play across his angular face making him look more demonic than ever. In the semi-darkness he seems less substantial somehow, more like a shadow than a creature of flesh and blood.

"Mein freund, this is madness."

Ain't arguing about this. I lean towards him, a snarl twisting my lips. "I wanna go outside. Just open the goddamn door will ya?"

Hesitating and agitated by my sudden change of mood, Elf flicks his tail nervously. "Surely Moira vill, as you say, kick our hinterbacken? Arsche?"

"Asses?" I got claws that can dissect him like a frog and he's worried about Moira going ballistic? Does he know something I don't?

"Ja."

Converting the snarl into a grin I inform him, "Ya can bamf yer ass to freedom. I'll deal with Moira." She can be hard but she ain't into physically kicking the ass of a sick man. At least I hope she ain't. Elf's safety I can't vouch for.

"I vould not leave a comrade to suffer der consequences of my actions."

"Glad to hear it. Now pull those fucking bolts before I…" Gonna say die of old age. Somehow that old cliché don't seem so funny any more. "…before I kick yer ass myself."

Elf looks affronted and regards me coolly before uttering a soft laugh at the absurdity of my threat. "Very vell." The bolts are stiff from disuse and give Kurt a fight before juddering open. Hinges creak, stiff with age, as he swings the door outward and cold air floods the room, displacing the warmth from the open fire.

"Hell's bells!" My teeth chatter as the chilly night air seeps through my clothing, penetrates my skin and settles in my bones. If I wasn't suffering so much it would be fucking exhilarating.

Light spills from the windows and door casting elongated squares of flickering yellow and sending my misshapen, slightly hunched shadow dancing across the terrace, a nearby flowerbed and the small lawn beyond. Holding onto the doorframe like my life depends on it I step outside and look up at the sky, my exhalations rapid puffs of mist snatched away by the breeze. There's a haze from wispy, high altitude cloud but not enough to obscure some of the brighter stars visible between the thin bands of illuminated cloud.. I can hear whipcord branches swaying in the breeze and the distant plash of water lapping the lake shore. Simple sounds. Comforting sounds. Gimme the soil, the rivers and the fresh air. Ya can keep yer sterile domesticity and cosy walls.

I'm aware of Elf approaching from behind, his own lengthening shadow hideously contorted by something he's carrying.

Placing a blanket around my shoulders he says, "You should come in now."

"Not yet."

Can't tell if I'm shaking from the cold or weakness. Probably both. Unwilling to return to the warmth I close my eyes and listen to the darkness. Somewhere far off, on the other side of the school, I can hear children laughing. A dog fox barks for its mate, receives a reply. High overhead a jetliner roars its way to where ever, a 747 judging by the guttural whine of the engines, its spectral, light-limned contrail adding to the wispy cloud. An old truck chugs it's way along Graymalkin Lane,; it's owner really needs to replace the exhaust. The breeze stirs the surface of the lake, its sound a faint susurrus of lapping water. I can hear the muted rustling of grass as the blades saw against one another. Somewhere to the west an owl calls softly as it hunts for prey on wings too silent even for me to detect.

It seems forever since I stood in the darkness beneath the trees and watched Summers speed along the drive, yet it's less than a week. That night I was dying inside, slipping into a darkness from which I couldn't escape. Now here I am, facing the spectre of physical death and it puts shit like that in perspective. So many things have changed in that short space of time I'm not even certain I'm the same man. And it could all, ultimately, be for nothing cause it looks like Death finally got pissed at me giving him the finger all these years.

Or maybe he's just having a laugh at my expense and my healing factor will do what it always does and pull me back from the brink. If that's the case it's cutting this one too damn close.

As my senses bathe in the sounds of evening I breathe deeply, wanting to savour the scents fully. Not one of my better ideas. Cold air cuts into my lungs like a knife and sets off a fit of liquid coughing that leaves me retching. Bile, bitter as acid, burns my throat and mouth and I spit it out. It lands with a splat on the flagged terrace where it glistens like dissolving gelatine. I can smell traces of blood.

"Fuck," I manage to wheeze.

Through the thickness of the blanket I can feel someone touch my arm. Zoned out and with the breeze in my face, I failed to pick up her scent until she got close. Shocked by my laxity I flinch from Moira's hand.

"Yeh trying to give yersel' and everyone else pneumonia? That's enough communing with nature for now, Logan. Will yeh please come back inside where it's warm?"

"But it's so beautiful. So fresh and vital."

"Aye, and it'll still be there tomorrow. Come away now."

"No it won't. Not like this. Nature shifts endlessly, changes from second to second. It will never be like this again."

"Yeh've the soul of a poet, Logan. Don't try tae relinquish it before yer time."

I'm half turned to retreat inside when the breeze switches and I catch a semi-familiar scent. Young. Feral. Female. Rahne is close by, cloaked in darkness. Can't see her. Can't hear her. No way of discerning how long she's been there. The airborne scent tells me everything else I need to know. No threat, just caution. No triumph, just puzzlement. No hatred, just curiosity. She's simply waiting and watching. I test the air, a tacit message that I've sensed her presence and suddenly she's gone, as silent as a ghost wearing sneakers.

Tugging gently at my arm Moira steers me back inside, unaware that her kid is prowling around close by. Leaning on her more heavily than I intend I feel her lithe form sag under my metal enhanced weight. Elf appears at my side and adds his assistance and we make slow but steady progress across the room. Exhaustion grips me before I get half way, energy draining from me leaving me weak and panting for breath. How the hell did it come to this? Inside me rage stirs, constricting my throat and making my eyes burn. Fuck, I don't believe it. A single hot tear scalds it's way down my cheek, stinging the cold flesh and dripping onto the blanket. Reaching a large armchair I shake off my human props and all but throw myself into it surreptitiously smearing away the tear streak before anyone sees it. What the fuck is wrong with me?

"Kurt, would yeh mind helping Cecilia bring some equipment up from the lab please?"

"Of course. It vill take no time at all."

"Hey!" I croak. "Don't you fucking dare bamf yer blue ass outta here!"

"Don't vorry freund Logan. Ororo explained about - vhat vas der name you called it? - der bamfing smoke." Grinning his sharp-toothed grin, Kurt leaves, carefully closing the door behind him. Seconds later: _bamf!_ The muffled crack of air rushing to fill the void he's left as he 'ports downstairs echoes along the hall. The draught under the doors brings with it a whiff of sulphurous acridity which catches in my throat. It sets off another spasm of coughing which I try to stifle.

Moira settles herself into a facing armchair and stares pensively into the fire, its flickering yellow glow burnishing her hair and turning her skin a warm amber. I'm content to sink into the over-stuffed cushions and bask in the heat the fire's radiating into the room.

"I dinnae understand, Logan."

"Welcome to my world," I reply, my voice ragged and breathless.

"Why would a man apparently on the verge of suicide give a tinker's toss about being seen in a wheelchair?"

What the fuck is this? Ain't there something more important ya should be bending yer mind to, darlin'? Giving a non-committal shrug I reply, "My mind's like Swiss cheese, Moira. Not even I know what I'm thinking half the time."

"Yeh make a convincing liar, Logan, but this isnae gonnae wash. I think yeh knew exactly what yeh were about. I think yeh used Maggie tae get what yeh wanted. Manipulating her, all of us, like that was…is despicable."

Huh? She thinks I did what? Forming my words very carefully I growl, "Great theory. Wanna go for the Nobel prize?"

"Don't give me that caustic wit o' yours laddie. It does yeh no credit. Charles explained how yeh can repel his thoughts, perhaps even hide yersel' from psychic detection by sinking intae a semi-feral state of mind. I dinnae think yer a man with a death wish. I think yeh used yer wolfiness tae confuse the emotional signals Maggie was receiving from yeh, convincing her yeh intended tae kill yersel'. Using her friendship like that was cruel beyond measure."

Bitterness for her friend's perceived ill use and disappointment that I would stoop so low clouds her face.

Hiking up my left eyebrow is grunt, "Ya think?"

Instead of replying, Moira turns away and studies the flickering flames.

I should be angry, raging even, to be so unfairly accused. But I ain't. I'm stunned by her reasoning. Fuck, is it possible to do that? To confuse someone with psychic powers in that way? I know I can block out Charlie's mental snooping by thinking feral but could I completely bollix both his and Maggie's psychic senses by letting 'em believe my intentions are other than what's really on my mind? Lulling an unfriendly mind-bender into a false sense of security before I gut him or her would give me one hell of an edge.

"You a gambling woman Moira?"

Surprised by my sudden change of subject she responds, "No, why?"

"Good. Coz drawing on an inside straight is for losers. The odds on drawing that one vital card are against ya. Same if ya missing one vital piece of information. Yer unlikely to draw the right conclusion.

"I'm not following yeh. What is it yeh trying tae say?"

"Lemme tell ya something, Red. I don't think like you, or Charlie, or god help me, Reyes. If I did I'd be dead already." Gripping the arms of the chair I lean forward, ancient leather creaking with the shift in weight. "The emotions Maggie picked up were the real deal. If my healing factor is failing and won't recover then I'll die on my terms, not yours. As for the wheelchair…sweetheart, I'm the Wolverine and I ain't fucking dead yet."

**Love it or loathe it, please leave a review. Believe it or not, what you think really does matter to me. :0)**


	15. Killing the Silver

The characters still ain't mine except for the ones that are. It ain't gonna stop me taking 'em outta the box and playing with 'em though.

This is the final chapter for A Force Of Nature because the story has gotten away from me and I need to get the narrative back on track. I feel the best way to do this is to break off and go with another story.

Again, thank you to the people who continue to read my ramblings and heartfelt appreciation to those of you who take the time to review/comment. **MidLifeCrisis** (my lovely beta reader, Dee), **joegood2003**, **taluliaka**, **Dayrunner145**, **bima** (times three) and **crockett.**

**Chapter 15: Killing the Silver**

A gentle, low pitched vibration shakes the room and for a moment I'm disoriented. What the fuck is it? An earthquake? Unlikely. It's gotta be the doors to the underground hangar sliding open like a silently screaming maw. A few seconds later I hear the jet approaching low and slow from the east, the path of least local habitation. Even with the engine's stealth mode engaged, significantly muting the roar of the turbines, it still makes a hell of a racket to my sensitive ears, especially when 'Ro makes the switch to vertical landing thrusters just before the jet descends into it's hidden bay.

The noise of the jet ain't woken me up, the burning in my gut did. I got a lava lake slowly simmering in my belly and the pain has increased incrementally over the last eight hours, more so since my departure from the med-lab. Compared to the agony Stryker inflicted on me this is a walk in the park but I guess the trip upstairs took more out of me than I anticipated. As I lie curled up around my misery, the engine whine dopplers out as the jet drops into the hangar and 'Ro hits the engine cut off. More vibration as the hanger closes, disguising its presence as an innocent looking basketball court.

A faint tingling in my head tells me Charlie's definitely back and prying. All he gets for his trouble is feral static. Somewhere close by a door creaks, the sitting room door by the way the hinges crack and groan, and my ears pick up the faint clack of beads before I catch Snarky's scent. Her footfalls, muffled by the hall's thick carpet, are receding towards the door leading to the main hall outside. The door opens and familiar scents rush in, carried on a fresh current of air. Cecilia exits the suite, closing the door quietly behind her.

Time passes; fifteen maybe twenty minutes before I hear her return. She ain't alone. Accompanying her footfalls is the low whine of motors and the velvet whisper of thin rubber tyres crushing carpet pile as Charlie propels his wheelchair along the hall.

"I'll be in the sitting room if you need me, Professor," Snarky whispers.

"Thank you Cecilia," comes the murmured reply. Snarky returns to her sentry post in the sitting room and I hear the door snick closed.

Moments later the door to my room swings open. Watching through eyes narrowed to slits I follow Charlie's progress across the room. Reaching my bedside he stops and through the glistening fringe of my eyelashes I can see his the left side of his bald head and face shining dully in the wan light of the night lamp Moira insisted must remain on. He stinks of aviation fuel, city pollution and exhaustion and it's all I can do not to wrinkle my nose in distaste. He also carries traces of Chanel aftershave. Guess One-eye reported to his troop leader like the diligent boy scout he is. Still marvelling why Captain Anal ain't put in a vinegar faced appearance to zap me a new one since coercing my way outta med-lab. Maybe Moira's kept him at bay 'coz she's running low on superglue.

"I know you are not asleep, Logan."

Cranking one eye wider I glare at Xavier. "Visiting hours are over. Come back tomorrow."

Noting my curled up posture and maybe reading something in my face he says, "You are in pain. I'll ask Cecilia to prescribe you an analgesic."

No ya won't. I've had a bellyful of fucking pills and potions. And more than a bellyful of Cecilia. "Fuck that. No more meds, Charlie."

"There is no need to suffer any more than you already are. Let someone help you."

Let someone help me? How the hell does he think I ended up in this state? "I've been suffering for as long as I can remember. Suffering means I'm still sucking air." Why change the habit of a lifetime?

"Life is not about suffering. It is about living."

Raising my head off the pillow and propping myself up on an elbow I hiss, "Ya can stop right there. Right. Fucking. There. You dare have the fucking gall to lecture me about living? The assrag government you've spent the last coupla days blowing like a bitch tore my life apart and threw away all the good bits like they were less than shit. Christ knows how many poor bastards those evil motherfuckers did that too. Including kids! They took some of _your_ kids, Charlie. And they'd do it again if they thought it'd serve their purpose.

"When they smile at ya and shake ya hand and talk about reconciliation and equality it's coz somewhere down the line they're gonna bend ya over and fuck ya six ways from Sunday. Ya know that so why butt-lick those creeps like yer their trained fucking lapdog?"

Charlie meets my obscenity riddled fury with cool neutrality, his face placid. As I vent he lets it roll over him, all the while studying my face with those steely blue eyes. At least he ain't fucking smiling. Finally I'm through and my censure hangs between us like a bad smell.

After taking a moment to compose himself, Charlie speaks. "Ad hoc pejorative. What would we do without it?"

What the fuck! Did Cue-ball just chew me out?

"Believe me, Logan, I understand your pain and your cynicism but not everyone is driven by hate as was William Stryker. Not everyone is as misguided as Senator Kelly. There are moderate, level-headed people in key positions of power, some of whom I would call friend. They are working diligently to bring about human and mutant integration. It will take time but I am confident this is a fight we will ultimately win."

"Ain't gonna happen, Charlie," I wheeze as something inside my chest contracts and squeezes my lungs. "Yer old mutant supremacist buddy Magneto'll see to that. And so will whoever's waiting in the wings to fill his jackboots after I finally send him to hell. Make no mistake, I owe him big time for what he did to Rogue and it's a debt I intend to settle the first opportunity I get."

"Logan, revenge serves little or no purpose. It does not solve the problem, it only serves to add fuel to the flames. Violence is not the answer."

Fuck! Why does he keep hitting the reset button? He knows I ain't never gonna buy into his pacifist, turn the other cheek shit.

"That a fact. How'dya think yer Washington buddies'll react if they discover it was you the old Nazi used to try and take down the entire human world? Think they're gonna understand that the thousands of deaths it caused wasn't yer fault? Think they're gonna clap ya on the shoulder and tell ya no hard feelings? Think again. What happened makes yer too dangerous to live, Charlie. They think we're all too fucking dangerous to live."

"Then it is our task to discourage them of this unhappy delusion."

"What is it with this suicidal pacifist crap you insist on peddling?" My words trail off as a coughing fit seizes me and I find myself breaking into a sweat trying to dislodge the disgusting glob of whatever currently superglued to my tubes. The effort makes my eyes water and tears squeeze from under my lids. As I hack like my life depends on it, Charlie's on the move. He pours water from a jug on the bedside cupboard and holds out the half filled tumbler.

"Here, this will help."

"Thanks," I manage to choke out and take a few sips. The coughing spasm eases.

"While I consider your actions to be hot-headed on occasion, and with good reason, your survival is paramount to me and to everyone else who would call you team mate or friend. There is nothing I would rather do than discuss and compare our differing opinions on mutant affairs, however it is evident this is not conducive to your well being so I ask that we save it for another time, particularly since arguing the point in question is not the reason for my visit."

"Whatever." Wiping my eyes clear of tears I ask, "So why are ya here? I don't see no grapes or get well card."

"I am here because Moira has kept me apprised of your condition. She is gravely concerned about your welfare. So am I."

Like I'm not? "Be honest Charlie. The reason yer here is 'coz Moira thinks I've gone nuts." And she's sore 'coz she thinks I tricked her into flinching in our little game of chicken.

"I would not couch it in those terms but yes, she is concerned about your current state of mind. Taking the incident with Rogue, your flash rages and your threatened suicide into consideration, coupled with the fact that one of the symptoms of adamantium poisoning promotes extreme emotional responses, I too, am inclined to regard your recent behaviour as erratic and uncharacteristic. Now you have taken it upon yourself to refuse giving blood and urine samples. Moira fears your impaired judgement will lead you to making rash decisions such as refusing dialysis or other vital medical intervention should it be required."

Ain't my fucking judgement that's impaired. Though I will concede my temper is a little short. Well, shorter than it usually is. "'Zat why ya really here? To ream me? Then listen good coz I ain't gonna say this again. If my healing factor has been permanently fucked up then no amount of intervention is gonna help me unless it involves getting rid of the adamantium and we both know that ain't gonna happen. If my healing factor does finally kick in then the same goes; intervention will be pointless. What's so fucking difficult to understand about that?"

Resting his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair Charlie leans forward, no doubt to lend a little weight to whatever he's gonna say. "Your argument is flawed. What if you refuse treatment and succumb to your medical condition just before a solution can be found?"

Just listen to mister fucking reasonable sounding off will ya! "Life's a bitch, Charlie. Just make sure ya bury my carcass somewhere I'd appreciate being."

"That one statement alone constitutes symptomatic evidence of impaired judgement."

"Then ya ain't listening correctly. I'm telling ya. No one. That's _no one!_ Gets to put anymore chemicals or needles into me. For _any _purpose."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to live my last few hours or days hooked up to a bunch of machines to prolong my suffering. I can't do that."

"The progress of your condition has been retarded. Surely this is a positive indication that the treatment you are currently undergoing is, at the very least, partially effective."

"What makes ya think my healing factor ain't responsible for that?"

"Moira's professional opinion favours the possibility of multiple factors working in your favour, including your weakened healing factor. She urges you to consider continuing your treatment."

"Considered. Rejected. It is my prerogative to refuse medical treatment. I am invoking that right. The only reason I'm still hooked up to these IVs is because it was a condition of getting out of that fucking dungeon."

Charlie bows his head slightly then looks directly into my face, his piercing, steely eyes hooded, half of his face cast into sinister semi-shadow. "How can I be certain your decision is not based on unsound rationale?"

Stay the fuck outta my head Charlie. "What happened to _trust me_?"

"Logan, your insistence of none intervention has a high probability of ending in catastrophe. Are you certain this is a risk you really want to take?"

Shit! Do I need to hammer this into his head using nine inch nails? "Are you fucking blind? It's intervention that put me here!"

"I'm aware of the unfortunate circumstances. I am also aware there are times your healing factor needs support. I believe this may well be one of those times."

Well I don't. "Fuck that!"

"Very eloquent. Which brings me to the subject of Ms Commeau…"

-o0o-

Jessie's fingers are cool against my too hot skin as she playfully traces the contours of my jaw, her skin rasping against my unshaven chin. Those big blue eyes of hers are staring into my narrowed ones, her expression intense. Leaning forward she kisses my cheek and I'm overwhelmed by her delicious smell. Then she withdraws, her lips slightly puckered into a cute pout.

"Logan, if you refuse to eat I'll be forced to play _aeroplanes_."

"Aeroplanes?"

"Like this." Picking up the spoon she dips it in the oatmeal and begins to zoom it around with appropriate accompanying noises. Dripping milk marks the flight path towards my face. "Open wide, Tiger."

Don't even go there hon. Turning my face away I growl, "Not hungry, and if ya insist on that caper I'll spear yer fucking plane with a ground to air claw."

Dropping the spoon into the bowl she places a hand on her chest and, feigning shock, she squeals, "You wouldn't do that would you?" Jeezus! She really knows how to put her eyelashes to work and that heaving, low cut sweater of hers is hypnotic.

"Try me," I reply half not joking. I really, really do not want to eat anything right now. With my guts on fire and my stomach on a mission to turn itself inside out eating is the last thing on my mind, not even if it's a big juicy steak. Certainly ain't got any appetite for the shit Maggie's concocted for breakfast. Who'da thought ya could make oatmeal look more gruesome than it already is? And since when does warm milk sprinkled with a few oats constitute a meal anyhow? "I hate warm milk." Hate the smell of it too.

"So do I," she says suddenly dropping the stupid babying act and transforming into the woman I've fallen for. "Point taken."

Pushing away the bowl I reach for the glass of water and take a sip. Water is a safe bet at the moment and it's coolness seems to briefly sooth inflamed tissue as it goes down. As I set the glass down on the tray I notice a series of bluish blotches, sorta like vague bruises, on my forearm. Elf's grip must be stronger than I thought. Moira's too coz I got a matching set on my other arm. Wonderful! I now have the distinction of bruising easier than a peach.

I know I'm worse this morning. The pins and needles in my arms and legs are more pronounced to the point is feels like invisible insects are burrowing under my skin. If the foul taste in my mouth is anything to go by the bleeding gums ain't improving any, the thermostat in my burning gut has been set on high, my lungs are full of shit that has the consistency and appearance of semi-diluted green snot, the pain in my chest is becoming oppressive. In a new twist, this morning, after crawling my way to the en suite bathroom having flatly refused to use a bottle, the simple act of taking a piss doubled me over in agony, the pain akin to having white hot knives thrust into my back and this over having produced a tiny, blood flecked fraction of my normal volume. Ain't told Moira about this latest misery. Ain't gonna.

"Dammit!"

The IV tubes drag on my arm and I grimace my irritation as I reach to scratch a persistent itch. My instinct is to pull the fucking things out but I promised Moira I wouldn't. It's a promise I'm rapidly considering breaking.

"You okay Logan?"

"No I ain't," I growl. "I wanna get the fuck outta here."

The heparin syringe is almost empty which means I'll be disconnected from it while it's changed over. I'll demand more clothing and then I'm gonna insist that I'm allowed outside for a while. Sun's shining. It's got the makings of a beautiful day and I'm gonna enjoy a little piece of it come hell or high water.

"You spoken to Charlie yet?"

Jessie cocks her head on one side and a lock of hair falls endearingly over one eye. "You mean Professor Xavier?"

Is there another one? "Yeah, old Cue-ball himself."

"Don't call him that. I think he's sweet."

If only ya knew, darlin'. "So's antifreeze but you wouldn't wanna drink it would ya?"

"He asked me to drop by his office at ten. Got any tips on how to impress him?" Luscious pink lips quirk into a smile that I want to smother in a kiss. Having to deny myself this basic desire is hard. Ain't gonna contaminate her mouth with the foulness of my own. I satisfy my longing with taking her hand and kissing that instead. Poor consolation.

"Yer'll do fine, Jessie."

The bed bounces gently as she settles herself into a more comfortable sitting position, her left leg crooked to give her support. "I met the most curious little red-headed girl last night. Oddest thing was, she reminded me of you. There isn't something else you need to get off your chest is there?" Everything about Jessie, her expression, her eyes, even the way she's holding herself upright, is expectant. Is she waiting for me to divest my soul of some dark secret? She's gotta be referring to Rahne, of course.

"Kid ain't mine so don't worry. She say anything?"

Jessie don't look relieved exactly but I sense she's happy there ain't no third party complication between us. "That's the weird part. For the longest time she just stood there breathing funny, like she's trying to catch the scent of smoke on the wind or something."

"Rahne's a feral, darlin'. She probably gives everyone a good sniffing. It's her way of getting acquainted with ya."

Nodding, Jessie says, "That explains it then. She gave me a good looking over too. Seemed very concerned about the bruise on my face."

I'll bet she was. "She say anything about it?"

"That's another weird thing. She informed me that the maniac - that wasn't quite the term she used, where does a little girl get to learn language like that? - who'd hurt me would never do it again. Strange thing to say to someone you've only just met."

"Not really. Rahne's father used to beat up on the kid. Moira takes care of her now. Adopted her for her own. People as damaged as Rahne tend not to be predictable." Got first hand experience of that, ain't I.

A deep frown creases Jessie's perfect brow. "Poor baby. At least she's safe now."

Safe? Yeah, as safe as sweating dynamite. "She say anything else?" Maybe dropped a clue as to why she tore out my throat?

"Yeah. She mentioned something about me being blue. That's it, she asked me why I was more blue after seeing you. I explained that I was sad because you were so ill. This seemed to confuse her somehow and the conversation went off on a tangent. I ended up explaining about the fight at the Auger and how I got the shiner." Jessie touches her face where the bruise, now yellowing and beginning to fade, still mars her cheek. "She looked at me, wide eyed, like I'd just told her I'd run over her puppy or I'd caught her with her hand in the cookie jar. Then the conversation took a really strange turn when she muttered something along the lines of 'If he didn't hurt you, meaning me, why did he hurt himself?' What was that about?"

Hurt myself? Is the kid so deep into denial she thinks I tore my own throat out?

"Rahne saw your injury and thought _I'd _attacked you. Last night she'd have smelled my scent all over you." And on the day of the attack she'd have smelled your scent all over me, hon. But that still don't explain why she wolfed out. "She's having difficulty adjusting to the fact that not all men beat up on women and kids."

Jessie sucks in a deep breath and the soft contours of her lips form a hard, uncompromising line. "Wait a minute," she says slowly as the cogs of realisation click into place. "You said last night that you'd been on the receiving end of a feral anxiety attack. Was it Rahne? Did she do this to you?"

"Hold it right there, darlin'. Rahne's a good kid who's a little confused right now. I inadvertently did or said something that triggered a feral rage but what she did was nothing I couldn't recover from." I beat up on her too but let's not go there. "She ain't the one who fucked up my healing factor."

Sliding off the bed Jessie begins to pace, suddenly ill at ease. "Logan, in less than an hour I'm going to be interviewed by Professor Xavier for a position teaching martial arts to kids like her. How can I justify honing the violent tendencies of a potential killer like Rahne?"

"Rahne is a frightened and physically abused little girl who needs to come to terms with her feral nature. She won't be your responsibility. At least not for a coupla years. You'll be coaching the older kids, teaching them how to defend themselves in a hostile world without having to reveal what they are or what they can do."

"You're talking like I already have the job."

Shit, who the hell am I trying to kid? Jessie don't deserve this. "Yeah, about that. I ain't happy about ya becoming a flying target in Iraq, ya know that."

"But?"

"I don't want ya taking on the job at the school because of me. I gotta tell ya there are times when I ain't gonna be around." Maybe never.

Jessie looks stricken, like I've just stabbed her in the heart. "If you don't want me around all you have to do is say so and I'll leave."

"That ain't what I mean sweetheart."

"Then what do you mean?"

Fuck. Why does the truth have to hurt so damned much? I gotta tell her. It ain't fair expecting her to make a commitment to suit me. One-eye was right. Jessie and I barely know one another. She owes me nothing and I need to be straight with her. I owe her that much. "What I'm trying to say is, there's a chance I ain't gonna be around period. I'm really fucked up and I don't know what's gonna happen to me."

My words take a few moments to sink in and then her mouth falls open in shock. "What? Are you trying to tell me you're dying?"

"I'm trying to tell ya I don't know, honey."

Colour drains from her face and her eyes grow bleak with fear. "No. This can't be happening. We…I just found you."

Taking her hand I squeeze it gently then kiss it, taking care not to leave bloody smears from my oozing gums. "Hey, c'mon baby. I don't aim to let this beat me, 'kay? I've survived worse than this, believe me. It's just I've never been in this particular situation before so things ain't so clear to me."

The pain on her face wrenches something inside of me. God, Jessie, all my life I've been looking for some like you, wondering if what I was searching for even existed. Save for Jeanie, yer the first really good thing that's happened to me...well since I can remember. And, like Jeannie, suddenly there's a real danger yer gonna get snatched away from me. Fucking doctors! Rage and despair make for uncomfortable companions and I can feel my control slipping as raw violence floods my forebrain and demands release. Heart monitor's going crazy and I can feel bile burning its way upwards

"Logan? Are you okay?"

No. I ain't okay. "Sick," I manage to groan while swallowing hard. Using her lightning reflexes Jessie grabs a disposable sick bowl and thrusts it at me. She looks away as I retch miserably. Can't even keep a few sips of water down this morning. There's blood too. More than last night.

"That doesn't look good, Logan. I'm going to fetch Moira."

Unable to tell her no, I reach out to stop her but she's already running through the door calling Moira's name. Damn! My upcoming mission to breathe fresh air just got complicated.

-o0o-

The vicious, internecine row that got my ass the sunny side of the French window came at a price. Moira is once more communicating with me on a purely professional level and Maggie continually frowns at me and tuts her disapproval under her breath. Don't stop either of 'em constantly checking up on me though. Maybe I'll sweet talk 'em later.

The Lay-Z-Boy I'm lounging in was liberated by Elf. Dunno who from and I don't care. It supports my aching body with a comfort I didn't believe possible. Despite the sunshine the ambient temperature feels distinctly chilly because I'm running another fever. It's making my head spin and I feel like shit warmed over. My insides still burn like I've swallowed concentrated sulphuric acid and I'm still attached to the IVs but at least I don't have to listen to that fucking beeping monitor for a while. Guess this little shenanigans is gonna cost me my good patient merit badge. It's worth it. The motorcycle magazine Maggie gave me to read it lies discarded on my lap. I just can't be bothered expending the energy to turn the pages or read. I just wanna soak up the sounds and the scents and think things over. I can always think better when I'm outside.

Maggie's approaching. She's left me alone for hell, it's gotta be five minutes or more. Maybe she thinks I'll abscond while she ain't looking. I wish!

"Would you like a drink, pet?"

"No." There's that frown again. "Maybe later, 'kay?" She don't look like she's leaving.

"Why are you doing this Logan?"

"Doing what? Sitting out on a nice day and enjoying the view? You got something against fresh air?"

"That's not what I mean."

I know it. Ain't debating this with her. She's an empath. She already knows why I'm doing this. If she wants to talk she can pick a different fucking subject. Or I will.

"So what category was it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"On the bee-wash scale. What category did my ruckus with Moira score?" Maggie looks at me like I've lost my mind. Perhaps I have. Then a wan smile slips onto her face.

"Definitely a five."

"That all?"

"The scale only goes up to five."

"So what does it measure exactly."

"Irascibility. Or in your case, extreme growliness."

Then it hits me. Not bee-wash; BWASH. Bear with a sore head. I chuckle breathlessly.

"I was bad wasn't I?"

Maggie folds her arms across her chest and strikes a pose that screams of female pissed of by masculine immaturity. "You were beyond bad. You were obstinate and defiant to the point of being beyond the pale. You would give a mule a bad name. If I was you I'd be thoroughly ashamed of myself."

But you ain't me are ya Maggie. "It coulda been worse. I coulda insisted on Canada. It did cross my mind ya know."

"Then thank God for small mercies."

I catch a scent on the breeze. Gonna hafta teach that kid not to approach from downwind. "D'ya mind if I have some time to myself Maggie? I got stuff I need to think over."

"Of course. I won't be far away. Just call me if you need anything."

"I will."

Maggie returns inside and I listen closely until I hear her exiting the sitting room, probably heading for the kitchen that comes with the suite.

"I know yer there, kid," I say quietly, not wanting to attract unwanted attention from the house.

Silence. Can't even hear her breathing. For a moment I think she's slunk away but then she lets out her breath softly. "Look kid, I know ya was here last night and now here ya are again. Ya gonna keep company with the topiary all morning or are ya gonna get whatever it is off yer chest?

More silence. Then rustling. Rahne, wearing what can only be described as an olive drab jumper and matching cargo pants, steps out of a large rhododendron bush into the open. She's wary, tensed to flee but I won't be doing any chasing.

"Yeh silver's fading," she murmurs, refusing to catch my eye.

Of all the things I expected her to say that never featured on the list. "Is it?" Haven't a fucking clue what's she's talking about but I intend to find out. "How d'ya know?"

"It's dimmer than it was last night." There's a catch in her voice, probably something to do with the pheromonesl of regret she's emitting. There's fear too, but not fear of me.

"Well that defines fading, I guess," I agree. I manage to smile but it's a weak effort.

She falls silent and tilts her head testing the air. "I did this."

"Did what?"

"The sickness is spreading. I can smell it. I killed yer silver and now it's killing you." Silver? Does she mean the adamantium? How could she kill it? And how the hell could it fade? Don't make any sense. There are tears spilling down her cheeks. Talking to Jessie must have put a few things into perspective for her and now she realises her error.

"Rahne! Why are yeh nae in class?"

The voice of authority is Moira. This is the second time in less than twenty four hours she's got the drop on me which, frankly, does fuck all for my reputation. Rahne flinches, also taken by surprise. Walking briskly to the foot of my chair Moira places her hands on her hips and addresses her errant daughter who is visibly cringing with guilt.

"I'll speak tae yeh later, young lady. Get back tae class this minute."

"Moira don't. The kid's trying to tell me something and I think it's important."

Too late.

Muttering something that sound like, "I'm sorry." Rahne turns tail and flees, her passage marked by the snap of branches catching on her clothing as she ducks through the shrubbery.

This ain't good. Instinct tells me Rahne senses something, maybe something even I've missed. "Damn! Go fetch her back here will ya?"

Moira shakes her head, emphatic that Rahne complies with her wishes rather than mine. "It's good that the bairn has finally come tae her senses. If she wants tae talk over her actions there's nae hurry to do so. I'll have words with the wee lassie when she's nae in class."

"She ain't in class right now." Moira looks at me over her shoulder and then turns, studying me with an intensity that makes my ass hairs twitch. "What?" She looking for a rematch?

"Logan, look at me."

"Like I ain't already?" I snap.

"Please don't be difficult about this," she says as her gaze bores into my own. "Look left please." I comply. "Now right."

"What's this about?"

"In a minute. Can yeh raise yer shirt for me please?"

"What is it with doctors and my shirt? If ya wanna see my six-pack ya'll hafta get in line, darlin'."

"I've seen it already and as such things go it's worth the wait. Now will yeh please do as I ask?"

Is she taking the piss? Humouring me? Apparently not. After pushing down the fleece blanket and hitching up the waistband of my sweat top, I reveal my belly to the world at large. I feel my stomach contract with the shock of the cool air on my hot skin. Moira studies my abdomen before prodding it methodically. At least I think it's supposed to be methodical.

Fucking ow! I flinch away from her touch.

"Is it tender when I do this?" She prods me again. And again, fucking ow!

"No," I lie glibly. "Yer fingers are cold."

Her disbelief emerges as a rather unladylike snort. As she continues her impromptu examination her face turns grim. "Yer garden interlude's over, laddie."

"Oh? I don't think so." I don't disguise the belligerence in my voice.

"Yer sclera, the whites o' yer eyes, are jaundiced and yer liver seems to be enlarged. I wasnae expecting this so soon."

Jaundiced? I examine my hands which ain't yellow. What the fuck's she talking about? "What are ya saying?"

"I'm saying adamantium poisoning doesnae progress this quickly even without yer healing factor. I strongly suspect there's another underlying cause aggravating yer condition." She touches my face. "Yer burning up."

For a second or two I suspect some sort of ploy to get me back downstairs. Then I look at Moira's shaken expression and smell anxiety oozing through her pores. "Like what?"

"I need tae perform some more tests to confirm my diagnosis."

When hell freezes over and hosts the winter Olympics. "No. No more tests. I'm not a fucking guinea pig Moira."

She looks at me like I've sprouted a second head. "Logan, this is nae time for intransigence. This is serious."

"So am I. Talk to me woman. What the fuck d'ya think's going down?"

"Have any of yer symptoms undergone significant changes since last night? Have any new symptoms developed? Be honest with me please."

I shrug. "Yeah, sorta."

"Do yeh mind expanding on that?" she asks expectantly.

"Well the symptoms ya know about are a little more…well, intense, ya know?"

"And the symptoms I don't know about?"

Is she fishing? Or is she waiting for me to confirm something she already knows? "It's agony to piss. And there was some blood," I admit.

"Och, yeh idjit! Why the hell did yeh nae tell me?"

"Coz it ain't gonna make a shred of difference to the outcome is it?"

"Bullshit! Do yeh want tae die?"

"No, I don't wanna die."

"Then why won't yeh let me help yeh lad?"

"Because I've had all the help off you and Snarky I can stomach, Moira."

That stings her. She blinks her shock, mouth falling open to reveal her well maintained pearly whites. "What yer saying makes no sense to me at all. Apart from…"

"Really? Makes a world of fucking sense to me," I interrupt. I ain't in the mood to listen to her justification. "Ever since I hit med-lab things have gone from bad, to worse, to death's door. You and Reyes had ya shot and ya both fucked up. I ain't sticking myself in the firing line no more."

The angry glint is back in her eyes. "If that's so yeh have a funny way o' showing it. Yer as good as holding the gun against her own daft head."

-o0o-

Moira made her argument to bring me inside and now I'm back in bed but not by choice.

"I think yeh'll be more comfortable if yeh catheterised." This announcement is delivered like she's decided to plump my pillows.

"What?" I snarl, cocking my head on one side and flashing her a warning scowl.

"It's a simple procedure. Maybe a few moments of minor discomfort but it will make passing urine more bearable for yeh."

Over my rotting corpse. "The first bastard…or bitch," I growl as I fix her with a malevolent stare, "To try and shove anything up my dick will get their fucking heads pinned to the wall."

"Are yeh telling me yeh'd rather suffer and risk more damage to yer kidneys?"

I'm telling ya it ain't gonna happen, sister. "If yer so desperate to stick another tube somewhere then stick up yer ass. Or better still, stick it up Captain Anal's ass. He needs to unpucker before the hole heals up from lack of use. Think of it as doing him a favour."

I sense an explosion of anger inside Moira. She ain't merely pissed with me any more, she's incandescent with fury. Eyes smouldering like green flames she turns away, seemingly not trusting herself to speak. The rigid set of her shoulders and spine informs me how much I've undermined her professional facade and now she's fighting to regain her cool. Marching over to a tallboy she begins to count out small packs with deliberate slowness and put them on a tray. By this time she's through she's managed to restore some of her composure and returns to my bedside, tray in hand. The packs contain new electrodes for the heart monitor.

"We'll need tae remove the shirt," she says, her manner perfunctory, her tone clipped to the quick. Trying hard not to take her frustration out on me, Moira disconnects the IVs and helps me strip off my top.

"My god!"

Her sudden outburst has me looking at her questioningly. Then I pay closer attention to what she's staring at. My arms are covered in bruises, far more than I noticed earlier, some forming angry looking blisters the colour of blackcurrant juice under my skin. Pressing one make it throb like a bruise.

"What the fuck is this?" I growl.

"Something I was afraid of," she murmurs, her voice bleak.

After restoring the IVs Moira's deft fingers place fresh electrodes on strategic places on my chest and lower torso in preparation for wiring me up.

The atmosphere is thick with the distress radiating off her. "What are ya afraid of? What the fuck's wrong with me?"

"Logan, yer critically ill, Yeh don't need me tae explain that part to yeh."

"Then explain the part I don't know why don'tcha."

"Very well. The symptoms are indicative of a condition called disseminated intravascular coagulation. Bottom line, the blood coagulates all over yer body." The tone of her voice is flat, almost devoid of emotion. She's accomplished at delivering bad news. Don't make her happy about it though.

"That don't sound good. So I ain't got adamantium poisoning?"

"DIC is a complication of an existing condition."

"Like flu turning to pneumonia?"

"Not really. The good news is, yer already receiving heparin so this particular aspect o' the condition may well have been controlled in the main."

"And the bad news?"

"There's a high probability of internal haemorrhage and heparin is a very effective anticoagulant."

"So if I begin to bleed out I'm fucked?"

"I could be wrong. Let me take some blood samples then we'll both know one way or the other." Wiring up complete, she leans away from me and switches on the monitor. As the beeping starts up I can't help but scowl my annoyance. Satisfied the monitor is working correctly she switches her attention back to me. "Logan, please."

The frantic movement of her eyes as she searches my face is reflected in her tense, almost trembling posture. She's taking this new drawback even harder than I am.

I stare at her for long moments before thinking, _what the hell_?

"Okay, I say with a cold smile. "But only coz ya asked nicely."

-o0o-

"Where's Moira?"

Snarky looks pained as she prepares to administer another dose of the chelating agent. "Analysing your blood sample. There are a number of tests she needs to perform. She'll be some time."

"Leaving me to yer tender mercies." I don't try to hide my scathing sarcasm.

"Logan, I didn't want this. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Well ya can st…argh!" Pain, unexpected and white hot, lances across my lower back causing me to cry out and double up.

She stops what she's doing and moves to my side. "You okay?"

"I…I gotta piss."

"Hold on." Snarky grabs the bottle and hands it too me before turning away to give me a modicum of privacy.

"Ah Jeezus," I groan, unable to contain the torture of trying to empty my bladder. A few muddy looking drops trickle into the bottle. The pain is so intense I break into a sweat despite my elevated temperature.

"You done?" I can barely nod my head. She takes the bottle so I can make myself decent. "Your kidneys are in a bad way. You need dialysis to support them or you'll be poisoned by your own fluid waste."

"What I need is for ya to fuck off and leave me alone," I grunt through the pain.

Give the bitch her due. She don't lose her cool. "I will but only to call Moira and not before I administer your meds. Your hand please."

Taking my right hand she holds it steady. I want to snatch it away but I just don't have the strength to do anything but retch. As she injects the contents of the syringe through the canula I can feel the faint burn as the medication spreads up my arm and into the rest of my body.

"All over. You can go back to hurling insults at me now. Should you require new ammunition I'm advising you to seriously consider returning to med-lab."

As she collects her doctor junk I rub my bruised right arm in the hope that this minor discomfort will pass more quickly. I stop when the blisters remind me they hurt even worse.

"Fuck that!" I mutter beneath my breath.

"Did you say something?" Snarky enquires.

Before I can reply something warm trickles from my right nostril and onto my lips. Blood. Now I've got a fucking nosebleed. I wipe it away with the back of my hand feeling the wetness smear across my face and soak into the bandage protecting my abused knuckles. Something's wrong. I can feel it, deep inside. An ominous weight quickly building in my stomach. It obviously ain't gonna stay there though. Too fast for me grab a sick bowl I feel my gorge rise with lightning speed. I try and minimise the mess by hanging my head over the side of the bed. What spatters on the floor is deep crimson.

"Logan? Oh my god!" Snarky rushes towards me but I spring my claws and she backs away.

"You!. You did this! What the fuck have ya done to me?"

Feral rage overtakes me and lends me a strength I didn't know I could muster. Ripping away the IVs and the electrodes I roll off the bed and lurch towards my tormentor. "Fucking kill ya for this ya vindictive bitch!"

Reyes screams and sprints for the door, slamming it shut behind her. I stagger after her and try to pull the door open but it's shut fast. I can smell her just the other side of the door. She's holding the handle and keeping it closed with her weight a she yells for assistance. I got a solution for that. Pulling my hand back I plunge the claws through the door. I don't hit flesh but she yelps with shock and I hear her back away. Don't get the opportunity to open the door though coz my stomach does another flip-flop which doubles me over. As my sagging weight tears the claws free I hear wood splintering. Slumping with my back against the door I allow myself to slide down to the floor as my trembling legs give way. There's nothing to brace my feet against so I'm gonna hafta trust to my dead weight preventing anyone getting to me.

"Logan? Logan are you all right?" The speaker's voice is high pitched. Anxious.

Maggie. "Keep that bitch away from me or so help me I'll fucking gut her!"

"What's wrong? What happened? You scared Cecilia out of her wits."

"I'm through talking. Go away Maggie. Leave me be."

Blood is streaming from my nose so I tilt my head up and lean it against the door. All this achieves is blood trickling down the back of my throat making me cough and spray the shit back out through my mouth.

Inside my head the animal is raging, urging me to run, to lash out and inflict damage and pain. Can't do that. I just don't have enough charge in my batteries to make this an option. This time the best offence is defence. Using all of my willpower I cage the beast and kick his hair ass into my back brain where he's easily controlled. Then I brace myself for a siege. No one's coming through the door. I'll make certain of that.

Gotta think. Gotta clear my head and work this shit through. It ain't a coincidence this happened after Snarky gave me the meds. I'm getting to thinking the meds are at least partly responsible for my healing factor going clusterfuck on me. And what the fuck did Rahne mean about my silver fading away and dying? Metal don't die. Ain't renowned for fading neither. She musta been referring to something else. But what? My healing factor? Can she somehow see it or sense it? Gotta be it. Gotta be what she was babbling about. I've been getting steadily worse since I woke up after the attack. That shouldn't happen even after the transfusion went wrong. But there is a factor to take into account. I've been attached to IVs dripping crap into my system since I ended up in med-lab. The meds are fucking me up. Can't be anything else.

"Logan? It's Moira. Can yeh hear me laddie?"

"C'n hear you so I know ya c'n hear me. Y'ain't coming in and I ain't coming out so go take a flying fuck."

"Logan, listen to me. Cecilia told me what happened. Yer bleeding internally. This means yeh likely tae be in shock and not thinking clearly. It's very important that yeh move away from the door so I can get in there tae help yeh. Please let me take care of yeh."

"That fucking bitch already took care of me. _She _did this. Fucking Latino witch with her evil potions."

"Cecilia isnae trying tae hurt yeh, Logan. She was only trying tae help yeh. I explained about the likelihood o' internal bleeding. It was just a horrible co-incidence this occurred just after Cecilia administered the ECD. Nothing more. I understand yeh confused and angry and maybe a little frightened but if yeh dinnae let me in yer running the real risk o' bleeding tae death."

Let ya in so ya can force feed me more meds and finish what ya started? Let ya in so ya can drag me back down to that hellish hole in the ground? "Rahne told me my silver's dying. Told me it was fading away. Yer killing it Moira. Yer killing me! You and Doctor fucking Death. You stay away from me ya hear?"

There are soft footfalls retreating up the hall. Moira creeping away for some reason? She's smart and she's devious. Dollars against donuts she's planning something. I can hear Moira's voice but it's muffled, whispering a conversation with someone. Can't small who it is though 'coz my sinuses are full of blood.

"This isnae his fault. He's irrational because of the poisoning, because he's haemorrhaging internally and in shock. There's a high risk he'll react violently and I dinnae need tae remind yeh the man has six integral, very sharp nine inch blades that can inflict serious wounds. Yeh need tae extract him from the room fast but not at the cost o' more casualties. This should help yeh."

Whatever she's just handed to whoever's volunteered for a suicide mission, I can guarantee I ain't gonna like it. Don't wanna hurt no one but if it comes down to my survival over theirs then I pick me.

"The first fuck that comes through this door gets gutted," I yell giving whoever drew the short straw plenty of warning.

BAMF!

The stink of Elf's personal stench cloud bites into the back of my throat causing a paroxysm of coughing. Fucking obvious choice ain't he? My lungs wheeze like soggy, broken bellows and I managed to open my eyes to glare murder at Stink Boy. Glaring back at me, hand raised to his visor, is Summers.

I raise my clawed hand. "Stay away from me asshole."

Summers hunkers down, well beyond my reach, so he can look me in the eye. That genuine shock I see on One-eye's stony face? Can't be.

"My God, Logan, what the hell happened to you?"

He asked. Guess he thinks keeping me talking will defuse the situation. Wrong! "Fucking Reyes is what happened. I told them to leave me alone. I told them and they wouldn't listen."

"Told who? Who do you think did this too you Logan?" He's in Fearless Leader mode. Biding his time. Boy is Moira gonna kick his ass. She demanded quick results. He calls this quick?

"Them. And now the kid says it's dying."

"What's dying?"

"My silver. It's fucking dying and they wouldn't leave me alone."

Dropping his head and then twisting it to glance at Elf whose tail movements are so agitated it risks tearing itself off his ass, "You're raving, Logan. You're not making any sense. Let me help you." Standing he moves a little closer. I catch the hand signals he's making to Elf, planning to distract while Beam Boy moves in closer.

Brandishing my claws is an effort too far. My arms droop to my knees because there's no way I can hold them up. Fuck! Bonus point. They look really intimidating with blood dribbling off of 'em even if it is my own.

"No! No more fucking help. Go 'way".

"Logan, you know I can't do that."

"Yes ya can. Same fucking way ya arrived."

Here comes the Reasonable Voice. "You're sick, man. Hurting real bad. You don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying. Why ain't anyone fucking listening? Let them in here and I'm dead."

"I'm sorry, Logan but I can't let this situation continue. I hoped it wouldn't come to this but it's for your own good."

He reaches behind and pulls something out of his waistband.

A tranquiliser pistol. He's gonna put me down like some fucking animal? I howl my defiance and try to dive aside but my body has reached the end of it's endurance and I just sit there like a cripple. Sorry he might be but he squeezes the trigger anyway and I feel a sting as the dart stabs into my shoulder. I will my arm to work, to snatch out the dart, but it's already delivered it's payload.

"You bastard. It's the meds that are killing me and ya go and pump me full of more?"

I laugh, a rasping wet noise that brings blood bubbling from my lips. Deep in my gut something bursts and pain rips through me like I'm being clawed apart from the inside out. I fold into myself, clutching my middle, screaming my agony. Outside it all I become aware I'm sitting in a warm puddle of arterial red blood. I watch in horrified fascination as it slowly expands.

"See," I howl, blood bursting onto my tongue and dribbling from the corner of my mouth. "See whatcha fucking did?

I blink. Both of 'em are surrounded by a bright, multicoloured glow. What the fuck? The stuff is crawling all over them like some parasitic rainbow. Whatever the crap is it's beginning to affect the rest of the room, creeping an inexorable path towards me. I try to scramble away but my limbs are so much dead weight.

"Get back," I hiss. "Get away from me."

Inside my head a jackhammer sets up a series of vibrations that spread along my limbs and lock my joints. Vision begins to fade as violent spasms force my extremities to take on a macabre life of their own, twitching and flailing in the most hideous way and adding to my inner torment with every jerk. I feel my upper body sinking lower, pulled by gravity and the flopping motion of my errant body. The mess of blood, warm and wet, acts like a lubricant and I begin to slither around uncontrollably. Overhead the ceiling elongates and the walls warp, melting into iridescent colours shot through with blinding white jagged light that stabs cruelly into my eyes and threatens to burst apart my brain. As I lie there, flopping around in my own blood I'm vaguely away of shapes standing over me; amorphous, monstrous, yet strangely familiar. They're speaking I think. Maybe yelling. I catch a few syllables.

"…uck he's having a seizure. Fe…"

And then the dark, formless nothing reclaims me. This time there are no ghosts.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Love it or loathe it, please review and tell me what ya think.**


	16. Bare Essentials

**Because you demanded it!**

Thanks to everyone who already has, or who will read _A Force of Nature_. Special thanks to those who took time to comment. You know who you are.

**MidLifeCrisis** has written a companion piece to A Force Of Nature covering Logan's missing time. _72 Hours_ is Dee doing what she does best – medical drama. While the story is ostensibly a collaboration it is very much her baby. All the research, all the hard work, is hers. My major contributions were a bit of writing, some helpful background gubbins and a big bunch of serial headaches (for poor Dee). :0)

Lyrics written by Lita Ford and Ozzy Osborne ©1988.

**Chapter 16: Bare Essentials **

Far away, maybe a hundred miles, maybe a hundred years, a tiny roseate light bleeds through the fabric of oblivion, slowly condensing into a baleful, throbbing mass. It hangs in the darkness like a threat. It casts no shadows, no reflections. It just is. It's a grotesque, disembodied heart, beating with the remorseless intensity. Every pulse gives off coruscating beams of light the colour of anaemic blood which probe the darkness like needles. Some pass through me, searing and hateful, a scourge to my soul, imbuing me with a cataclysmic awareness I want to run screaming from. I shrink from the assault but there's nowhere to hide.

There's never anywhere to hide.

With awareness comes sound, at first a faint whisper like flesh against silk, building slowly into a distant, near silent crescendo. It's the sound of a still, dark night. The sound I hear when I look up at the stars and strain to hear them slowly wheel across the sky. Like an illusion it surrounds me, everywhere yet nowhere, ebbing and flowing like a phantom tide. Gradually I begin to pick out lilting almost-words that fade in and out with the pulsating light. Barely impinging on the edge of my perception the music, for that's what it is, is hauntingly familiar. Curious I move closer but not too close. Proximity coalesces the semi-random sounds into a focused whole; the voice of a grunge angel singing.

_Sometimes it's hard to hold on  
So hard to hold on to my dreams  
It isn't always what it seems  
When you're face to face with me._

_If I close my eyes forever  
Will it all remain unchanged  
If I close my eyes forever  
Will it all remain the same?_

I want to do that. Close my eyes forever. Turn my back on the misery people gleefully describe as life. That fucking song might've been written for me. I could close my eyes, turn my back, but nothing would change. There would still be the pain. The fear. The hatred. The blood. All I have to hold on to is nightmares and I cleave them to me like grim fucking death because that loathing, that appalling cruelty, is all I have left of my previous existence. It's all there ever is for me. I'm nothing but a walking curse. Everything I touch either dies or turns to shit. My whole stinking life is nothing but a heap of reeking excrement.

So here I am, caught in a holding pattern, circling the light like some existential fucking moth. Too gutless to venture out of the shadows encompassing my mind, too stupid and pig-headed to let go and fall into the eternal abyss of death. Oppressive weight settles on me, an invisible anchor dragging at my soul, wrapping its cold chain around my heart and crushing it to dust. Bound by the darkness I feel it stretch, a subtle movement, as if flexing the muscles and joints of limbs kept too long immobile. I think the limbs belong to me but the sensation's too disconnected to be certain.

The movement catalyses a nova. The light explodes into sickly, flesh-coloured fire, burning away the sheltering darkness, exposing my putrid core. I hurtle towards it like a doomed comet caught in a gravity well of despair. With all my being I claw the space around me trying desperately to find some leverage, a solid surface I can cling to, something to halt my plummet towards reality. Of course there's nothing. Nothing will stop the inevitable. Am I screaming? I can't tell. All I can hear is the roar of imploding isolation and the inrush of desolation.

As I open my eyes and embrace harsh reality more than light comes flooding in. Visions of thrashing around in a pool of my own fetid blood, my guts and brain full of acid and broken glass pour into my head. Summers! Fucking asswipe put me down, nixed what was left of my healing factor and plunged me into a seizure. Reflexively clenching my hands into fists, the claws spring out, an involuntary action triggered by rage. Accepting the pain as a thirst-crazed man accepts water, I release my rage in a feral howl of defiance. Only in nightmares crawling with images of molten metal, slashing claws and spurting blood have I been so pissed off.

Sitting bolt upright I give vent to my fury.

"Where is he?" I roar, my voice a portent of murder. "Where's that cum-for-brains, numbnuts motherfucker who put me down like some mangy mutt?"

The music that lured me back to consciousness suddenly cuts off. "Dinnae yeh ever get tired o' picking fights?"

For the first time I take notice of my surroundings. I don't need the stench of drugs, chemicals and medical grade cleansing agents chiselling into my sinuses to tell me I'm back in the dungeon; back in fucking med-lab. A slim figure in a white lab-coat stands several feet away, face pale and drawn, red hair dull and dishevelled, arms folded across a chest heaving with stress and not a little fear.

"Moira!" The name's not an acknowledgement, it's an accusation.

A bitter clarity settles over my anger, seeping into the cracks of my fragmented psyche and crystallizing it into a devastating whole. Summers betrayed me as surely as if he'd stabbed me in the back. He didn't enter that room as the objective leader of the X Men going to the aid of a team member. He went in to pull the fucking trigger on the guy who put the moves on Jeanie and put a dent in his skull. Sure he played the concerned commander to perfection. Had to look good in front of Elf didn't he. Had I been 'Roro, Elf or just about anyone else, would he have been so fucking dedicated to turning out my lights? I don't think so.

"Sheathe the claws, Logan. Yeh've nae need o' them today."

And that's when I realise the bandages on my hands are gone. There's blood around the base of my claws, more than I'm accustomed to, but it's already coagulating, the flow stanched. Retracting the claws I watch the wounds seal into livid, puckered scars that don't fade to smooth skin. My healing factor's functioning but it's still fucked up. Is that why I'm still attached to IVs and the cardiac monitor? Making a move to lever myself from the bed my action is halted by a weird dragging sensation in my groin. The IVs ain't the only thing I'm attached to. Throwing aside the covers I discover a tube snaking from me, across the sheet and off the side of the bed. I lean over the side to confirm the evidence of my eyes. Hanging there in all it's crude glory is a piss bag.

"Fuck!" Eyes narrowed into a rage filled glare I expose my teeth in a snarl.

Moira breaks eye contact, stares at some spot on the floor, sweeps back an errant strand of hair behind her right ear and says, "Let's get this over with then maybe we can move on to a more civilized level of conversation."

The gloves are off which suits me just fine. "I distinctly remember telling ya no fucking catheter."

Pulling up a nearby chair Moira shoves her hands into the pockets of her lab coat, drawing the garment around her hips before sitting. There's no grace in her movement, just the efficiency of fatigue. I got little sympathy for her. She was the one who gave Summers the opportunity to fuck me over and finish the job Reyes started. "So yeh did," she agrees.

"So which part of no fucking catheter did ya have a problem with?"

Shrugging, she replies, "Frankly, all of it. It's a lot less bothersome than changing diapers."

What the hell? "Diapers?"

"Yeh've been in a coma for four days. Nearly three of those spent fighting for yer life. What did yeh expect me tae do, put yeh across my knees and powder yer backside?"

Four days? Four fucking days? "Well I'm awake now so get the damn thing outta me."

"There's still blood in yer urine which indicates yer kidneys need a little more time tae heal. The catheter should remain in place for at least another twelve hours. Naturally, yeh nae gonnae listen tae a damn thing I say."

I'll pull on a dress and call myself Caroline first. "Healing factor's kicked in, I can feel it going to work which means I'm walking the fuck out of this dump just as soon at the tubes are pulled." I start plucking electrodes off my chest, ripping out hair in my haste, and throwing them aside. The beep has been turned off but the scanner flatlines very nicely as the asshole machine lights up like a Christmas tree. "Either you're gonna remove the dick tube right now or I will. Choice is yours sweetheart." Don't fancy the idea of the collateral damage I could inflict on myself but the tube sure as fuck ain't staying where it is.

Moira's heavy sigh draws my attention to how tired she looks. The years hang heavy on her, their burden concentrated in deep lines and shadows beneath her eyes, in the pasty, unflattering colour that has replaced her usual fair complexion. Those green eyes have a hunted look I'm more accustomed to seeing in the mirror.

"I don't suppose yeh interested in what happened?" she enquires without conviction.

"I know what happened. Ya told that dicksmack diva Summers to put me down and I bled out like a son of a bitch as a result." My guts shrivel at the memory of my ultimate humiliation. One-eye saw me shitting blood; watched me go into seizure and writhe in my own filth and bodily fluids. Witnessed my weakness and loss of control. Him and Elf both. I ain't ever gonna forgive that.

"I'll take that as a no then."

The canula in the back of my hand is the next to go. Ripping away the surgical tape holding it in place I pluck it free and treat it with the same disdain as the electrodes. Blood wells up from the tiny hole forming a small red bead before the wound closes.

"I'm running outta tubes, Moira."

"So yeh are." Shoulders slumped, her face wan and resigned, Moira hauls herself from the chair and tugs a couple of latex gloves from the dispenser before rummaging in the cupboard for a flat, white something sealed in plastic. She also produces a large plastic bowl from another cupboard before placing everything on a trolley table and dragging it across to the bed. Her body language is wary, almost flinching as if expecting me to strike her yet she resolutely closes the distance between us.

Thrusting her hands into the gloves she snaps the cuffs tight around her wrists.

"Yeh'll experience some discomfort but I'll work as quickly as possible, all right?"

"Whatever. Just get on with it will ya?"

"There will be some seepage. I'll just put a protective layer underneath yeh." Pulling open the plastic package and removing the contents Moira unfolds a padded sterile towel backed with waterproof material. "Can yeh just raise yersel' please?"

I comply and she slips the towel into place. How much more humiliation can I take? Maybe I should yank the fucking thing out myself. Moira closes a valve on the bag before unhooking it, detaching the tube and placing it in the bowl I can't help scowling when I see the cloudy fluid sloshing around.

Taking me in one hand, her fingers blood warm, Moira begins to tug gently on the tube. Normally just thinking about a woman's hand on my jock would elicit a hard on and an actual touch would have me standing to attention with the tenacity of an iron pole. But this is a first for me. The mere sight of the tube burrowing inside me like some giant parasitic worm has traumatised me into flaccidity. I can feel its caustic friction, an unpleasant, drawn-out dragging sensation, as Moira, head bent over my groin – Jeezus even that ain't eliciting a response – continues with the removal operation. With what's left of my tattered rep at stake I think dirty but I remain limper than a plate of noodles. Not even the image of Jessie, naked and rubbing herself up against me helps. Hellish visions of injection tubes pumping molten metal into my body ain't helping none either. All I want to do is shrink.

"Can ya be done already?" The horror of the situation stresses my vocal chords and the demand emerges as a strangled squeak. I cough to try and disguise it but immediately wish I hadn't. Muscles clench and grip the tube making it's movement even more corrosive as it scrapes along sensitive tissue.

The last of the catheter tube is removed in a small gush of piss despite my best effort to hold it in and Moira straightens up. "All over."

"Yer fucking right about that." I'm outta here. I've had more than enough of this shit. "Where are my clothes?"

"I know I cannae prevent yeh from discharging yersel' but at least let me examine yeh before yeh leave."

"Ain't gonna happen sister so back off. Now for the last time, where are my fucking clothes?"

"I'll arrange for some to be brought down. While yer waiting I can…"

"Shove ya stethoscope where the sun don't shine. I said back off and I mean back off." Swinging my legs off the bed I carefully lever myself upright. My legs feel weak but they support my weight well enough. "The 'phone's on ya desk. Ya gonna use it?"

"Logan this is madness please don't…"

"Ya ain't gonna? Then I'll just hafta get 'em myself. See ya around, toots."

Arching her eyebrows almost to her hairline Moira says, "Without a stitch on yeh? Yeh wouldnae dare!"

I ain't got any hang-ups over nudity but I got an almighty downer on people who piss me off for no good reason. I'd give her hell over it but I got overriding priorities: a hunger for food that's driving me crazy and a compulsion to see Jessie that's bordering on obsession.

Giving Moira a fuck off and die snarl I turn on my heel and throw her a defiant, "Watch me!" as I leave.

-o0o-

I want outta this claustrophobic metal box so I make directly for the elevator a little way along the hall. The door slides open the moment I press the call button, something I'm grateful for. As the door cycles closed I glimpse Moira rushing out of med-lab clutching a towel in her hand. She's too late to catch me and I'm too bloody minded to let her. Feverish and bone weary, the shambling wreckage currently masquerading as my body grows unbearably heavy as strength drains from me like water on sand. It leaves me gasping, my legs wracked with painful spasms as muscles cramp. Slumped against the metal wall of the elevator for support I close my eyes and will myself into the state of locomotion necessary to carry me where I'm going. The wall feels like ice against my hot skin and I welcome it's coolness. Stuff's mending inside me but it's taking its own fucking time and, in the absence of solid food, feeding off my own body to do it. The healing factor's a mighty useful thing to have but it turns my body into a furnace when it performs its mojo and right now the fever ain't helping me think too clearly. How else would I be naked, in a lift, in a school for Chrissake?

I stink too. Of sweat. Of piss. Of sickness. Of the drugs expelled from my body through my pores. There's still blood and worse matting my hair although someone obviously made an attempt to clean me up. First thing I'm gonna do is throw myself into a hot shower and scrub away the remnants of the last week even if I hafta lose a few layers of skin to do it. Then I'm gonna throw on some duds, pack my few possessions into a bag, grab Jessie if she's of a mind to tag along, steal one of Charlie's Jeeps and get as far away from this fucking hell hole as I can.

The elevator draws to a smooth halt and the door slides open revealing the hall of the main wing. Pity the damn thing don't go to the upper floors. No one about but judging by the mouth-watering smell of food and the racket coming from the dining hall, I guess everyone's sat down to lunch. Though I'm naked as a jaybird I ain't an exhibitionist so I cut down the hall towards the kitchen and the back stairs. Less chance of running into anyone that way.

The stairs are close by and I can hear and smell Maggie doing whatever she does in her kitchen. Gonna pay her larder a visit before I leave. Need a lot of honest food inside me to fuel the healing process. When did I last eat? What day is it? Monday? Tuesday? Haven't got a fucking clue. Putting on a little speed to avoid any confrontation I collide with her as she exits the kitchen. The tray in her hand crashes to the floor and I yelp, leaping aside to avoid the scalding coffee splashing everywhere.

"Goodness gracious! Logan, are you all right? I didn't expect to see you…" Then her eyes grow as round as saucers as she takes in my appearance.

Shock is replaced by a more subtle emotion. Okay, subtle might be stretching it. I wouldn't describe the arched eyebrow, lopsided smile and blatant interest on Maggie's face to be in any way matronly. The twinkle in her pale brown eyes borders on wicked and there ain't no arguing where her bold stare is fixed.

"Logan, you're stark bollock…erm you're not wearing any clothes."

So she does know how to use cuss words. I was beginning to wonder. "I'm not?" Feigning puzzlement I make a show of checking. "Damn, you're right." Recalling the conversation I had with Moira about using my feral emotions to fool psi-sensitives I try for a little animal anxiety and confusion.

Amusement morphs into concern. Wandering naked along the hall of a school ain't a normal thing to do, not even for me. For Maggie, out of character means there's a problem and now she's reacting to my faux distress. Very interesting.

"Are you feeling all right, pet?" She takes me by the arm. "You're burning up. Come on. The suite's nearby. Let's make you comfortable and I'll find Moira."

I just woke up from a four day coma and she thinks I got confused and wandered off while Moira's back was turned. I look down at the floor to survey the mess. "Someone might cut themselves."

"First things first, pet." I let Maggie lead me to the suite. I'm more'n halfway there anyhow and it's closer than my room on the second floor. There's a shower and likely some sort of clothing so I don't mind being diverted. On reaching the suite she opens the door and I get assaulted by the most appalling stench, worse than the one created by the renovations.

Stumbling backwards, my hand clamped over my nose and mouth in an attempt to fight nausea, I choke out, "Ain't going in there." Jeezus fucking Christ! The stink of shit, vomit and blood mixed with industrial strength cleaning agents hits me in the face with the force of an adamantium coated two by four. Choking for air I step back, away from the assault to my senses.

Pushing past the startled Maggie I make for the back stairs only to find Moira blocking my path. Thrusting the towel in my face she instructs, "Take this and make yersel' decent."

"Gerroutta my way," I growl, desperate to put distance between me and the squalor of my degradation. I feel myself getting flushed with more than the fever of healing as rage triggers an adrenalin rush.

"Logan…" Her hand snags my wrist and she tries to halt my escape. Snatching my arm from her grip I pop my claws and brandish them in her general direction.

"Stay the fuck away from me Moira."

The colour drains from her face leaving her skin the colour of diseased putty. She backs off but only a little way. "Logan, yeh feverish and yeh nae thinking straight. Yeh need tae…"

"No! Ya've done enough damage. No more advice. No more fucking needles and tests. I'm through with all that shit! I'm through with _you_!" To emphasise I mean what I say Moira gets a close up of razor edged adamantium.

A smothering blanket of tranquillity falls over me as Maggie's empathy gears up. Her shock brings about an overkill of soothing emotions but she forgets that I can shake off her benign influence like a dog shakes off water. Recoiling under the onslaught of my own anger Maggie quickly gathers her wits and tries a different approach.

"Logan, Moira has only your best interests at heart. Your claws are scaring her and they are absolutely terrifying me, so I'm begging you please, _please_ put them away."

The quietly enunciated plea sinks into my heated brain like a blade of ice and delivers the cold logic of reality. Moira and Maggie aren't my enemies yet I'm threatening them with deadly force. Hating myself for losing control I look at both of them, at their determination to do right by me. Dropping my hand to my side I allow the claws to slide quietly from view.

"The hell with both of ya," I grunt before turning and loping off towards the stairs.

I can feel their despair, their shock, dogging my footsteps. Makes no difference any more. I'm quitting this mausoleum and I ain't coming back. If Jessie consents to come with me all well and good. If not…well I'll deal with that too. Inside my head my animal howls its approval.

Fate hurls another obstacle in my path as I make my way outta the south wing hall. This time it's Rogue shaped and she has her regular entourage of Mister Frosty, Casper, the Chinese Firecracker and Metal Guy in tow. The five of them are staring at the smashed and splattered contents of the tray littering the floor. They musta come to investigate the racket.

Firecracker notices my approach before I can backtrack and get the fuck away from them.

"Oh. My. God. Guys, get a load of mister tall dark and naked will ya?"

For fuck's sake! Shout it a bit louder will ya kid? Someone in Australia didn't hear ya. Ain't no speculating on where her gaze is settled. Her dark, almond shaped eyes are alive with fascination and undisguised…whatever. Where the fuck did she learn be so brazen? Most likely the same place she gets those brainless look-for-a-fuck quizzes from. At least I hope that's all it is. I'm wishing I'd taken that stupid towel from Moira now.

Speak of the fucking devil. Maggie and Moira are hunting as a pack coz here they are, right on cue. Moira wordlessly hands me the towel. This time I take it and wrap it around my middle. Ain't much but it hides what it oughta.

A figure breaks away from the group and hurtles towards me. Throwing her arms around my waist and almost dislodging the towel, Rogue envelops me in a bear hug.

"Hey, kid," I say, putting a comforting arm around her. "Easy on the goods will ya? Breakages hafta be paid for ya know." Making a conscious effort not to flinch from the real possibility of making skin to skin contact with her I take her gently by the shoulders and hold her away from me so I can look into her eyes. She's crying, her tears sparkling like stars in twin chocolate skies.

"Ah've bin so worried about ya, Logan. Hardly slept a wink since they took ya back down ta med-lab. Ah…Ah though ya was dyin' on me," she snuffles as the snot begins to run.

"Hey, better people have tried, kid." I smile but it gets lost between my lips and my eyes. She's like my kid sister but I don't need this right now. With the adrenalin quickly being metabolised I can feel my strength waning and curse myself for the weakness. "I'd love to chew the fat with ya darlin' but I gotta go clean up."

Wrinkling her nose Rogue replies with a wicked smile, "Ah'll second that. Ya stink like a wood full a skunks. Scratch that. Ya stink worse than alla Canada's skunks combined."

One of the things I love about Rogue is her honesty. I'm gonna miss it. I'm gonna miss her. She's the only thing about this fucking place I'll regret leaving behind. This time my smile is genuine. "Thanks." Kissing the top of her head I say, "Gotta go now, darlin', 'kay?"

"Sure Logan. See ya later?"

"Yeah." The lie comes easily but settles like lead shot in my gut. It cosies up to the shame I'm feeling over springing my claws on Moira.

I catch the daggers Mister Frosty's stare is throwing my way. He ain't never been comfortable with what me and Rogue have but that's too bad. The fact that his girlfriend is embracing a near naked man is pissing him off. Hostility and jealously bleed from him like a pestilence and those eyes of his are colder than a fucking glacier.

The fact that Rogue is completely unselfconscious about my not wearing hardly a stitch ain't lost on me. How much of my personality did she absorb and how much of me is still polluting that pretty head? I'm so sorry little girl. Sorry ya hafta carry my shit around inside ya.

The Firecracker's edging closer, too damn curious for her own good. Her clothes are louder than her personality and that's saying sommat. The combination of bright yellow and chewing gum pink ain't so much a fashion statement as an all out declaration of war.

"Yer staring, girl. That ain't polite," I warn her.

Completely unfazed, her upfront gaze unwavering, she pops gum and says candidly, "I must've missed the paragraph about prowling around the school textile-free in the school rules. Which page was it again?"

Kid's gotta smart mouth. Before I can reply Maggie beats me too it. "That's quite enough of that young lady. I'm sure all of you young people have somewhere else you need to be."

She emphasises that last word with an empathic push that's an undisguised motivation to depart. Does she really believe I'd hurt them? Hurt Rogue?

"Yeah, c'mon Rogue, let's get out of here already." Bobby cocks his head at Rogue, a tacit plea for her to leave with him. Rogue looks at me and I nod.

Reluctant to oblige despite Maggie running interference, Rogue snags Jubilee's arm and drags her friend to where the others are waiting. Milling around a little uncertainly the kids begin to head back in the direction of the dining hall. As they disappear from view they're talking quietly and heatedly amongst themselves save the Firecracker who's raucous exclamation of, "But did ya see the size of him chica? If that guy did a stud calendar they'd have ta like, spread him over three consecutive months! Know what I'm sayin'?" The decibel output alone must've jolted the whole of Westchester out of any lunchtime apathy it was enjoying. Damn motormouth kid.

Acknowledging neither women I stride purposely toward the stairs, intending to divert to the kitchen and snag some quick eats to appease the aching void in my belly. I actually manage a coupla yards before the vulture of fate shits another obstacle. This one wears a visor, an expression born of chronic constipation and is coming from the direction the kids have just disappeared. And I just know he heard what the foghorn on legs said. No matter. Makes no difference to what I'm gonna say and do to the cocksucker. A fresh, more critical adrenalin rush drives out my hunger and replaces it with rage as I accelerate to intercept One-eye.

"I got a few choice words I wanna share with ya you slot-eyed wanker."

"Logan, what are yeh doing?" Moira enquires, fearful of my intentions. She's right be. "Is it wise tae go looking for trouble in yer present state of mind?"

"None of yer fucking business. Stay outta this, Moira. You too, Maggie."

The air is percolated with the stress hormones streaming off these two. Hearts pumping like a pair of race horses thundering along the home straight they ain't about to give up nipping at my heels like terriers.

Maggie's up next, barking out her worried plea, desperate to divert my attention from One-eye, afraid to physically restrain me with a touch. "Logan, Moira has a point. The animosity I can sense you projecting at Scott is unjustifiable. Scott has done nothing to harm you."

Not bothering to break my stride or turn my head I dismiss her claim. "Really?" My voice is unforgiving, guttural. "You certain of that are ya?"

The other half of the double act pounces. "_Listen _to me, man." The apprehension in Moira's voice borders on panic. "Yeh've just awoken from a deep coma after a brush wi' death that was too close tae call. Yeh're burning up with fever and it's affecting yer judgement. Persist with this irrational behaviour and someone is gonnae get hurt or worse. Think about what yer doing, man."

I'm thinking, woman. I'm thinking ya should shut the fuck up.

"Logan," Summers greets me, uncertainty giving his voice a hesitant edge. "You're on your feet. That's good. But don't you think your attire is a little inappropriate? This is a school after all."

"Scott, don't…" Maggie begins but I cut her off.

"Inappropriate? You talk to me about what's fucking inappropriate ya shit-witted little prick?"

"…antagonise him. He's traumatised, bordering on feral and I sense he's fixated on something he believes you did."

Shit! Maybe I shoulda projected about making daisy chains to throw her off the scent.

In direct response to Maggie's statement One-eye halts and raises both hands as if surrendering. "Hey, I'm not looking for a fight so back off right now mister."

I can smell it coming off of him. The confusion; the sudden realisation I'm too close for comfort. My proximity has him worried and it shows. Good.

"Ya think I don't know what ya game is? Why ya put me down? And ya call yerself a fucking leader?"

Realising his passive stance ain't defusing the situation Summers initiates his Fearless Leader mode, straightening his shoulders, drawing himself to full height, slipping on the mantle of command, transforming into the personification of Roger fucking Ramjet.

"Logan, look at you. You're dead on your feet, man. Get the hell back to bed where you belong. Whatever is eating you up I promise you we'll discuss it later, okay?"

The feral bomb in my head detonates, fracturing my slender control over the animal. Drunk on distilled fury my darker, wild side oozes through the cracks in my mind and bares its fangs. Seizing One-eye by the throat I slam him into the panelled wall with enough force to splinter wood. It's all I can do to stop myself snapping his neck. "So ya concerned for my health now are ya? What changed?"

Rank fear, as concentrated as acid, radiates from him yet he remains passive, not attempting to access his visor controls. He does go on the defensive though, gripping my wrist with both of his hands in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his throat.

"What?" His voice is a hoarse whisper, his larynx squeezed by the strength of my grip. "What th'hell you raving about?"

"Ya want me to spell it out for ya asshole?" Ya want me to describe my degradation? That's gonna cost ya.

His eyebrows meet in a deep frown. "I don't understand. What is it I'm supposed to have done?"

"Why'dya do it, bub? Why'dya pull the trigger? Ya get a kick outta watching me thrash around in my own mess didja?" Raising my right hand I make a fist and spring the claws.

"No!" The terror forcing the simultaneous shrieks from Moira's and Maggie's throats is so palpable I can taste it. It's bitterness bites into my throat and sours air already thick with their fear and my venom.

"I was trying to save your life you maniac!" Summers manages to choke out, his face turning puce.

"Trying to save my life. I see. That a euphemism is it? Ya think I'm fucking stupid?"

Sweating profusely now, One-eye's lips writhe as he struggles to find enough breath for his next salvo. "I think you're delirious with fever, Logan. You're radiating heat like a Thanksgiving turkey."

These idiots all singing from the same hymn sheet? "Wrong answer dickcheese." I pull my clawed fist back and slam it into the wall a hair's breadth from his ear. Splinters explode like scattershot, some embedding themselves in One-eye's face and neck, others leaving superficial red trails across his jaw and cheek.

"Oh my God! Logan, this is madness. Let Scott go."

Wassamatta Maggie? Suddenly discovered yer growly pet ain't so nice and cuddly after all?

Moira steps into my peripheral vision, well within the danger zone. Her hands remain in sight, arms hanging unthreateningly at her side. "Are yeh insane?" she demands, struggling to keep her voice even.

Sure, Red. Why not? Who wouldn't be fucking unhinged after surviving being dipped in a smelter and thoroughly mind-fucked by the psycho division of the US military only to be almost taken out by what amounts to friendly fire?

"Are yeh really prepared tae let the sick and angry wolf in yer head ruin everything yeh've achieved over the last few months?"

As I stare at Moira like she's grown a second head Maggie steps up, standing shoulder to shoulder with her friend, the women unified in their attempt to calm the enraged beast. "Please, Logan. Just think what it is you're doing."

Sounding as desperate as he smells, Beam Boy squeaks out, "What the hell do you want me to say? You were in shock and bleeding to death. You threatened to rip apart anyone approaching you. You were talking gibberish. I was sent in there to get you out. Fast! And you think I got off on watching your agony? What sort of monster do you take me for, for Christ's sake?"

"Your words, fuckface. You tell me?" Tearing my claws out of the wall I tense my arm for another strike. Maybe this time I'll give him more than splinters to worry about.

"Logan, stop this insanity! Get a grip on yersel', man, before some real harm is done." Moira steps closer, concern for Summers overriding her common sense.

"Back off, Moira. I ain't gonna warn ya again."

"Do as he says," Summers gasps out. "He's out of his mind and capable of anything."

"I cannae do that, Logan. I cannae let yeh do this." She takes a step closer. And then another. "Will yeh hurt me too? Gouge me wi' those terrible claws? It's the only way yeh'll stop me."

The intensity of her words cuts through my rage, pushes it back and for a moment there's lucidity. I don't wanna hurt ya darlin'. I just want answers. Then the flimsy barrier of reason is torn down and the animal exerts a stronger hold. Why the fuck are ya doing this? Ya tired of living?

I catch another scent. Wild, hesitant. Someone else is here. Rahne. I can sense her feral emotions kick in, hot, visceral and alarmed to the point of wolfing out. Adrenalin's pumping through her small body and I can smell the hormones of stress; I can taste her apprehension; I can hear the swift beat of her inner turmoil. Indecision and panic roots her to the spot. This ain't a good thing. Combined, these two emotions can lead to blind stupidity and in her case it comes attached to big teeth and claws.

I don't wanna hurt ya kid. Please don't ya do anything we both might regret.

Rahne's emotional tension snaps and, in a sudden explosion of action, she's hurtling towards me. Amazingly I can't smell fur or hear the gnashing of fangs. What's more she's running on the balls of her fee, not loping on paws. I brace for impact, sheathing my claws to fend her off while tightening my grip on Summers.

"Mummy, no!" she screams and, faster than I would believe possible, she streaks past me and cannons into Moira, using her momentum to swing her mother beyond my reach. In my peripheral vision Moira sprawls on the ground, landing untidily on her ass, legs akimbo, the breath knocked from her lungs.

Summers takes advantage of the distraction and attempts to twist himself out of my grasp so I re-introduce him to three reasons why he should think again. Smart boy gets the message real quick.

Fighting for breath Moira demands of her daughter, "What the hell? Rahne?"

"Mummy, don't. M…Mister Logan doesnae wannae hurt yeh but his wolf might." Clinging tightly to Moira, Rahne effectively impedes her mother's attempts to stand.

Instantly at her friend's side, Maggie chips in with, "The child is correct. There's a see-saw struggle for dominance going on inside Logan's head. I can sense the conflict within him."

I grin nastily at Summers. "They're so immersed in analysing me they seem to have forgotten about ya. What say I put ya back on top of the agenda?"

Grimacing his discomfort Summers has another stab at cogent rationale. "Logan, you are making a very big mistake. Whatever it is you think I'm guilty of let's at least take it somewhere more private. Or better still, save it for another time. For the sake of the civilians if nothing else."

Moira, disentangling herself from Rahne's protective embrace, is also thinking along similar lines. "Listen to what Scott is saying, Logan. If you have a grievance there are better ways tae express it. Will yeh nae put a stop to this nonsense now?"

Maggie steps up. "I know your healing factor needs sustenance and there's all the food you need waiting for you in the kitchen right now, pet. I'll throw something tasty together for you. You'll feel better for it."

Appealing to my more basic needs, particularly one that is in urgent need of appeasing. Nice move Maggie. "What about beer? Ya got beer?"

"You know I have."

Uttering a humourless laugh I give One-eye a close-up of my fangs. I'm betting my breath is even less pleasant. "And for this I'm supposed to let go the postman's leg and follow ya home like a dumb mutt? Doggy be good and ya'll get a treat? Is that what ya think?"

Actually, her shrewd psychologist's logic has hit the mark. I'm ravenously hungry, capable of eating a horse and it's fucking rider. But the raging thirst I'm suffering is a more urgent priority and needs to be slaked. And it will be if only these bastards would stop pressing in on me, trying to corner me, harrying me like dogs baiting a bear. Why won't they back the fuck off and give me room to think?

"Rahne, go and find Mister Wagner and Miss Munroe and ask them tae come here as quickly as possible. Under no circumstances do yeh return here yersel'. Are yeh clear on that?"

Sending for the cavalry, Moira? Like it's gonna make any fucking difference at all?

Although I can't see the kid I can smell her defiance, her stubbornness. She ain't going nowhere. Oddly there ain't no anger in her, just concern for her mother and a weird, indefinable emotion that seems to be directed at me.

"Ganging up on him will only make his wolf more angry. I can smell it growling louder."

"Rahne, I understand why yeh wannae help but yer just a wee lassie. Logan's current state of mind makes him unpredictable and dangerous and I dinnae want yeh anywhere near him right now."

"I'm sorry, Mummy. I cannae do as yeh ask."

Unwilling to watch the minor drama playing out behind my back I glare into One-eye's visor, daring him to make a move.

"Oh my God, Rahne, no!"

Light footsteps pad towards me. Rahne is making no secret of her approach. She's offering no threat so I let her come on.

"Mr Logan?"

"Waddaya want, kid?"

"No! Please Rahne. Come away at once. Logan…"

The pint-sized feral insinuates herself between Summers and my clawed fist. She studies the gleaming blades for a moment before turning her gaze on me. It's guileless, unchallenging. Everything about her demeanour, her scent, is submissive, docile. She's taking a hell of a risk. She knows it. I know it. I'm damn certain that Moira and Maggie know it. I can't help thinking One-eye ain't worth it.

The hall falls eerily silent, the only sound is faint birdsong filtering in from outside. It seems that the whole world and his wife are holding their collective breath. Keeping a strong grip on Summers' throat, certain that the Boy Scout in him won't try anything smart with a kid so close, I glare down at her, a snarl twisting my lips. Those green eyes bore into me with an honest intensity only kids can muster. She ain't moving and, although the pheromones she's releasing indicate she'd rather not be doing this, she's holding her ground. Taken aback by her actions I lower my clawed hand.

Her shoulders visibly relaxing Rahne says, "Yer silver's coming back, d'yeh ken?"

"Yeah, I know." Why the fuck am I having this conversation with a half-pint?

Beneath my hand I can feel Summers stiffen, sense confusion welling upwards and displacing some of his fear and anger. "Silver?" he croaks. "You said something about that. Said it was gone or dying." There's a ghost of doubt gnawing at him. A creeping suspicion that's tapping him on the shoulder with it's scaly claw and whispering in his ear.

Dragging him towards me I say, my nose almost touching his, "It's how the kid sees my healing factor. But I was raving and outta my head at the time so what do _you_ care, bub?"

Is that a whiff of guilty conscience I can sense? Yeah. Un-fucking-believable! There's a pinch of dawning realisation adding piquancy to the melange of scents he's venting. What's more I can detect a pallid flush spreading beneath the puce of partial strangulation as the new information sinks in. Well, well, waddaya know! The dumb fuck actually believed he was doing me a favour. Ain't so cocksure now though. When I slam him back into the woodwork I do it with a little more care than before. But not much. He still pulled the fucking trigger.

"Oh god. I didn't know…"

"Ya didn't wanna know," The venom in my voice makes him flinch.

"Rahne! Come away, lass," Moira pleads. She's advancing once more, her movements slow and deliberate, reaching out for her daughter's arm, one hand raised in supplication. All she wants is the kid and she's no intention of trying anything stupid. Maggie is astute enough to realise the job don't take two and stays where she is, projecting a subliminal calmness in small waves, like ripples on a shore. Maybe she trying for gradual erosion of my feral anger, water dripping on stone. She should live so long.

Rahne's a complication I can do without. "This ain't no place for ya, darlin'. Do as yer mother says and beat it."

Maggie transforms my order into a mild compulsion, gently working on Rahne who shrugs it off like a pro. Guess me and the kid have more in common than a retrograde feral nature. Maggie's frustration rises like steam and I just know her lips are pursed. Life's tough.

Gently fending off her mother's attempt to pluck her to safety, Rahne presses closer to me. I can feel her breath, warm and moist on my arm and chest. Her heart's beating fast but it's not from fear or close proximity to me. She's torn between her love and respect of Moira and the guilt of disobeying her and causing her anxiety. Moira is in full view now and I can see the pleading in her eyes. She genuinely fears for Rahne and that shames me. Inside the animal howls at the injustice.

Not a child.

Never a child.

Never again.

What sort of fucking animal d'ya think I am?

I stare at her, imbuing my expression with the damage her tacit accusation has raised. She halts, transfixed, eyes wide and brimming with fear. And again, I'm racked with shame. I wanna scream but my throat, like that of Summers, is too constricted to issue anything louder than a whisper.

"You think I'm capable of that?"

Of course she does. I got Boy Scout by the throat don't I? I threatened him with my claws. Threatened all of 'em.

The compulsion to scare the shit out of Summers melts away along with the last viable remnants of the adrenalin surge. Releasing my grip, I stagger away from him, my strength ebbing, no longer augmented by anger. Wretched and full of self loathing, I seek the support of the wall, intent on putting as much distance as I can between them and me. I'm unfit to be in civilised company; too great a liability to have around, particularly in a school. Don't get very far coz my fucking legs decide to up and quit on me. Back against the wall, I sink to the floor, head bowed, arms resting across my bent knees like limp pivots. I'm radiating heat, burning reserves I ain't got. All I want to do is curl up, close my eyes and return to that safe dark place. This time forever.

I'm running through a forest of contorted and decaying trees whose naked limbs pierce the sky like petrified broken screams. The stink of their corruption permeates the air, eating into my skin like acid, breaking me down, a chemical crucible warping me into an animated version of themselves; twisted, putrid, diseased. Beneath my feet the blighted ground comes to life, snagging my feet, impeding my flight, consolidating it's hold with every step I take until I'm held fast like an insect in molasses. Caught fast, I try to free myself but the more I thrash around, the more crushing the grip becomes.

The sky overhead is swollen and gangrenous, a writhing ceiling of pendulous, rotting paps. One of the paps parts forming a gaping maw from which projects an incredibly bloated and oddly scabrous lightning bolt. Is it possible for an electrical discharge to fester? The zombie bolt strikes a nearby tree and I go small, protecting my head with my arms, bracing myself against the explosion of superheated wood that's gonna come flying my way. It don't happen. Curious, I peer through a curtain of gnarled fingers. Ain't quite sure what I expected to see but it ain't this. Not lightning but a fucking weirdass arm whose skeletal fingers curl almost lovingly around the tree's trunk. As I watch, the fingers tighten like a noose, pulping the rotten wood, turning it to greasy brown ooze. The surface of the arm ripples as the limb jerks skywards, uprooting the tree. An agonised shriek rents the air and I search for its source only to discover it's the tree screaming. Roots snap and flail, curling in pain as the tree, locked in this bizarre struggle with the arm, desperately clings to the ground with its remaining roots. The outcome is never in any doubt. With an enormous crack, like bone snapping, the tree is torn free and flying skywards leaving behind it a gaping wound in the ground. Fuming sap, the colour of decaying blood, wells upwards and quickly hardens, sealing the hole with a giant, smouldering scab through which protrudes broken roots.

Another pap bursts open to disgorge a festering arm which reaches down to seize a tree close by. The shrieking penetrates my skull, drilling deep into my brain, the vibration sending excruciating shockwaves bouncing around inside my head. More arms reach down; a hundred; a thousand. Wood shatters; roots snap; a tempest of mindless, shrieking pain fills the air and my head, drowning out all other sound. Closing my eyes and clapping my hands over my ears I try to shut out the madness, making myself as small as possible in the hope that I am not noticed. After an age there's silence. It falls like a shock and I take stock of my surroundings, head ringing from the ghastly assault. Uncurling from my crouch I stand and survey the desolation. The trees are gone, leaving me isolated in a field of steaming scabs that stretches as far as the eye can see in every direction. Directly overhead, a pap gapes wide and an arm reaches down one last time…

"Logan? Are you feeling all right, pet?" Female. Motherly. No relation.

Spell broken, the scene wavers and blinks from existence. Was it a nightmare? A hallucination? Am I still caught in it? My eyes are open but all I can see is a pastiche of colour, texture and living form, an animated impressionist painting seen through the bottom of a thick glass. Three figures, their outlines smudged, their features blurred and absurdly lumpy, stand in a loose semi circle before me. Their scents are familiar and with olfactory memory come names: Moira, Maggie and Asshole. Beyond them a smaller other paces fretfully, her pheromones anxious, her scent feral. Rahne.

I'm outta my fucking head. Only explanation.

There's a scent of drying blood. Not much but enough to tell me it's fresh. Asshole cut himself shaving maybe? There's a stronger smell infecting the air. Rancid; a mixture of sweat, sickness and the sewer. God, it's me. What the fuck have I been mixing with?

"Logan?" Same voice. Maggie.

"I…" What the fuck do I say? I don't feel all right. It ain't a natural state for me. Sure, I have my moments but they are few and far between. Instinct tells me this ain't one of 'em. The fact I'm sitting on the floor, scrunched up like a discarded concertina, tends to confirm that view.

The emotions they're projecting settle upon me like molasses, cloying, smothering. I'm drowning in their concern. Choking on their fucking pity. Why can't they leave me alone? Don't need their help. Don't want their help. Never asked for it.

Half-pint is hovering in the background, agitated and twitching with pent up anxiety, a blur of khaki, black and red.. I can hear low, almost inaudible growls escape her throat and her gaze darts from adult form to adult form but never quite falls on me. I can see her more clearly now. As if she's more real than the others.

"Logan?" Female. Different. Moira. "Yeh cannae stay here, lad. Here take my hand and we'll…."

"No!" Lashing out I slap away her hand, hard enough to sting but not break bones. Ain't going anywhere with her. Not after last time. Hand quickly withdrawn, Moira's shock registers in my nose. What the fuck did she expect? Rahne's pacing grows fretful, her growls louder, more resonant, after my hand connects with that of her mother.

Hunkering down to my level is Asshole. That red contraption across his face looks like he's been censored. "Hey, take it easy, man. We just want to help."

Vague images of his 'help' stir inside my head; hard to discern, like turds floating in a mud pool. I identify enough to tell me the memory ain't pleasant.

"Like last time?"

Maggie's up next. All calmness and reassurance. Why is she so fucking reasonable all the time? It ain't natural. "No, not like last time, pet. We won't make that mistake again."

Ya got that right.

They're crowding me. Pressing in. Overwhelming me with their emotive stench. Cornered, sick to my soul and being consumed from within by fevered nightmares, I'm transported back to that scabbed plain. The sky is still an evil, bloated purple and a thin band of wan light marks the horizon all around me, separating sky from earth. I seem to be standing at the epicentre of the devastation; ground zero. The entire place is one giant lesion. A massive cancer. And it's inside me. I know it like I know there ain't no cure. And why should there be? Ain't nothing worth saving.

I can feel myself disintegrating; dispersing into the landscape molecule by molecule. Far away there's a voice calling my name; gentle; motherly; reassuring. It's holding me together somehow. Preventing what's left of me from flying apart. As it pulls me back to the other place, an invisible force envelops me; reinforces my failing strength; becomes a bulwark against the encroaching horror. It's coming from Maggie.

"This isn't good." She's closer now, her voice strained. She's sweating too. Through exertion this time. "Logan's slipping away from us, receding somehow. There's been a radical change in his emotional output. I'm barely registering any output at all other than a faint echo of terrible anguish."

"He's dying?"

You wish.

"Only in a metaphysical sense. Something inside him is broken. It's as if the foundation of his soul is crumbling and he's slipping through a fissure."

"What the hell does that mean? You telling me he's sinking into a berserker rage? He's going insane? What?"

"Whatever it means we cannae let it happen here. We need tae get the laddie back tae med-lab stat. Rahne, we need Kurt here as quickly as possible. Off yeh go, lass."

Med-lab. That's a bad thing.

"No!" Unsheathing both sets of claws reinforces the message and the pain brings greater clarity, gives all of them a more solid outline. "Gut the first one who tries."

Déjà vu. Vague recollection of being here before and it didn't end well. Why the fuck don'tcha all leave so I can crawl into a hole and topple a mountain over it?

The appallingly familiar talons of rage are tugging at the edges of my mind. They rend and tear the fragile fabric of my humanity, scoring it deeply. The animal advances and I can't stop it. Too much devastation. My will, my strength, reduced to ash and despair.

"Rahne did yeh nae hear what I said? Get gone, hen."

"Ye cannae send him back down there! D'yeh nae ken his wolf will fight tae stop yeh?" Kid's stressed out. Why the hell is she doing this?

"We've nae time for this nonsense, bairn. Maggie, please take Rahne and locate Kurt. If he's nae in the dining hall it's highly likely he's in one o' the greenhouses with Storm."

"No! I'm not leaving." Rahne again.

"What the hell's wrong with you Rahne? Do as your mother asks right now, young lady."

Beam Boy's in full on teacher mode. For what fucking good it's gonna do him. Kid's got a mind of her own and she _understands._ Lay off her, asshole.

Feeling offset from reality only part of me is following this surreal exchange. The kid's the only one fighting my corner. How fucking weird is that? The surroundings grow murky, the people mere shadows. Can't seem to focus. Not sure I wanna. Seems to be some sort of struggle going on. Half-pint squirming free from someone's grasp. White coat tells me it's Moira..

"I'm sorry, Moira, but while Logan is responsive I'm not leaving him." Ain't a shred of compromise in Maggie's voice as she takes charge of the situation. "We need to keep him responsive. At this juncture I do not believe reasoning with him is a viable option." Summers snorts but says nothing. "He possesses a confrontational disposition which is easily stimulated. Scott, he sees you as an antagonist. Talk to him."

"You want me to provoke him after what he just did? Maggie, tell me you aren't being serious"

"I'm not asking you to put yourself at risk. I'm asking you, please, just talk to him."

"What the hell do I say?"

"Whatever you feel will work. I know you two spar verbally when the fancy takes you which means you are fluent in basic Wolverine. Just keep him focussed."

"Am I the only one who thinks this is a bad idea?" Summers opines.

No, you ain't.

A shadow tears itself away from the other two and hunkers down well beyond spontaneous lunging reach. He ain't taking any chances. "You heard the lady you crazy son of a bitch. You need to keep focussed."

Do I?

Moments pass. Birds sing. Anxiety fills the air. People hold their breath. Somewhere a mouse farts but I could be imagining that.

"No smartass come back? C'mon, Logan. You're not all big-badded out are you?"

Go 'way.

"You know, I've a dartboard hung in my room."

Happy for ya.

"Your picture's pinned to it. Do you know why your picture's pinned to it?"

Don't give a fuck.

"Because I couldn't find an effigy ugly enough to want to stick pins in."

That's almost funny. I laugh; a strangled humourless noise; clotted blood swirling down an abattoir drain. Sheathing the two outer claws on my left hand I flip him the adamantium bird. The view improves but everything is still in soft focus.

Stony faced, One-eye says, "Classic."

Asshole.

"That's good, Scott. You've engaged his attention and I can sense his emotional responses stirring." Maggie giving encouragement. The verbal kind.

"You'd think a man with blades like yours would learn how to shave."

One-eye's beginning to enjoy this. I can tell. "Says the dumb shit with the razor burn."

Stunned silence.

"What?" Summers looks and sounds confused. Now I am too.

"Allow me to interrupt for a moment will you, dear?" Maggie moves to Summers' side and motions him to step away. Straightening from his crouch he does as asked and Maggie takes his place. I notice she's keeping a healthy distance too and that bothers me. Maggie's one of the few people I can call a friend and I know the blades make her nervous. Retracting the remaining claws makes her smile.

"I'm going to ask you a question that may seem pretty stupid but I want you to humour me and answer it. Will you do that?"

I shrug. "'Kay."

Again the smile. "Good. Now, pet, tell me what you were doing ten minutes ago."

"Uh…" Dreaming I think. No, having a nightmare. So how did I get here? And why am I dressed in a towel? "Shit! Was I sleepwalking?"

"Before you arrived here, what is the last thing you remember?"

Moira and that fucking tube. "I was in med-lab. I left." And now I'm here.

"And after that?"

"All of you standing around me and then Beam Boy's bullshit stand-up routine."

There's an explosion within One-eye. He's bristling with a mixture of outrage and disbelief. Wonder who just rammed a burr up his ass?

"I'll tell you what's bullshit, Logan. You pretending you can't remember what you just did!"

What the fuck's he talking about? "What the fuck're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about this!" He points to the grazes on his cheek. "And this!"

Pulling the collar of his turtleneck jumper away from his throat reveals a distinctive set of bruises with the pattern of the fabric clearly imprinted into them. I stare at the marks unable to drag away my gaze. I did that? How come I can't remember doing something I've been itching to do since I hit this dump? And since when have I been a demented somnambulist? I'm burning up. Was I delirious with this damn fever? Is that it?

"A few minutes ago I sensed Logan experiencing what I believe to be a partial retrograde fugue state. If this is indeed the case, his confusion, like your bruises, is genuine."

Come again? She calling me a psycho?

"But…" Summers begins, wanting to air his beef. Moira ain't giving him the chance.

"Take Maggie's word for it, lad. She's an authority on such matters."

"Mister Summers?"

"Not now, hen," Moira tells her daughter in a gentle voice.

"But…Maggie's right. Mister Logan is different now."

"I'm sure yeh're right, lass."

"Look, can we take this somewhere else? I need to eat." Ain't got a fucking clue what's going on. And I don't care. I'm feeling woozy and with my fever raging outta control I swear I'm gonna spontaneously combust unless I give my healing factor some fuel other than me.

Unfortunately, One-eye ain't diverted so easily. "Maggie, I've read about fugue states and Logan being able to remember things he did before he so conveniently lost the last few minutes of his life doesn't add up."

"Scott, I'm convinced there is a very good explanation for Logan's behaviour but I need to consult with Charles to confirm my suspicions. Since he's visiting Hank we will all have to wait until he returns. Meanwhile, this is neither the time nor the place for speculation."

"Tell you what," I growl. "You lot can thrash this out 'til the fucking cows come home. I'm gonna go eat." Getting to my feet proves to be a minor struggle but I manage it without denting my self esteem too deeply. The towel is riding a little low so I tighten it around my waist. Kitchen's close, Maggie keeps her larders well stocked and the lingering smell of lunch is driving me crazy. A beer would be nice. Sounds like a plan.

Barely two steps into my determination a small figure detaches itself from the group. Wordlessly, Rahne takes my right hand and holds it in a tight grip. She ain't letting go any time soon.

"Rahne?" The concern in Moira's tacit question is painfully evident.

"She'll be fine," I assure her. Without breaking stride, I gaze down at the half-pint feral. "You hungry too kid?" She nods. "Then let's hit the galley and chow down."

Another figure breaks away and grasps Rahne's free hand. Moira. She's worried. Can't say I blame her but she's too professional to kick up a fuss over it. "I'll join yeh. I've nae had lunch yet and someone needs tae ensure yeh dinnae gorge yersel' first off. Yer've nae had solid food for several days, remember. Yeh need tae take it easy Yeh go against doctors order, yeh get tae clean up the mess."

"Sure," I grunt out. Don't she ever stop being a fucking doctor? Behind me a scene begins to play out.

"That's it? You're going to let that lunatic wander around the place? I know you like the guy but is this wise?"

Sounding disappointed Maggie addresses Summers. "You believe me capable of compromising the safety of the school because Logan is a friend?"

I can smell the bastard cringing. Serves the fucker right. "I didn't mean…of course not. I'm sorry if I've cause you offence."

Mollified, Maggie continues, "I sympathise with your concern, especially considering the knocks you've taken. But please remember I possess a personal insight to Logan's current emotional state and I can assure you the conflict I sensed in him is no longer manifest. Some mechanism inside his mind resolved it."

"But it could happen again?"

"The possibility remains."

"That's just great. Two feral time bombs with short fuses on campus and we're expecting one to train the other not to explode? Only at Xavier's would this pass as anything approaching normal." And he actually laughs. It's a weak, almost stillborn noise but recognisable. Maybe there's hope for Captain Anal yet.

"It's good you can remain philosophical and open minded in this business, petal. It's one of the qualities that makes you such an excellent leader and a first class teacher. Charles is confident all will work out for the best in the end and he's rarely wrong. Come on, I have a pot of coffee percolating. I think we could all use a little caffeine to steady our nerves."

One-eye verbally accepts Maggie's general view of the situation but he smells neither happy nor convinced. Like I give a fuck. He accepts Maggie's offer of coffee but only to keep his beady little visor on me. I just know it. The persistent itch between my shoulder blades ain't simply down to sweat.

-o0o-

The towel's been replaced by a worn set of sweats Maggie found. Fever's still raging and I'm almost too weary to lift a hand but at least I've got food inside me now. Moira's insistence I eat moderately has taken the edge off my hunger but the emptiness ain't been satisfied. After Moira departs the kitchen with Rahne in tow I try and wheedle more food out of Maggie. I quit arguing about it when she plonks an AOT in front of me. Must be one of the bottles Jessie said she'd brought with her.

"Your kidneys are still delicate so make the most of it," she advises.

Guess the beer's rationed too. Wonder if she's aware how potent this particular brew is? I aim to put it away before she cottons on. After wrapping my lips around the business end of the bottle and taking a good, long chug, I ask of no one in particular, "How come Jessie ain't here? She over at the Auger?"

Maggie and Summers look at each other and then at me. Maggie's the one who replies. "No. Jessica flew home three days ago, pet. She promised to return as soon as she can but that may be quite some time."

Silence.

"She left?"

Suspicion.

"Why?"

Anger.

"Did someone upset her?"

Glaring at One-eye only gets me a blank look. Can't smell guilt on him so what made her leave? Did she run away because she thought I was dying?

"Why'd she leave?"

Again it's Maggie who fills in the details. "Her father suffered a serious heart attack. He's scheduled for an angioplasty some time tomorrow or the next day."

"Jeezus!" I gotta go to her.

"The poor dear has been 'phoning several times a day for updates on your condition. She was terribly distressed about having to leave you at such a critical time but I'm sure you…"

"Understand, yeah." I finish off. Maggie's face breaks into one of her special smiles.

"I expect she'll be 'phoning for an update soon. The news of your recovery will cheer Jessica up no end. The poor girl has been given little reason to smile recently," she adds.

Ain't waiting. I need to hear her voice right now. "She leave a number?"

"I have it right here." Maggie unlocks a drawer and pulls out a piece of paper. There are three 'phone numbers including one I recognise. There's an address too. Gotta be the Commeau place.

"I need a 'phone."

Maggie to the rescue again as she fishes a cell out of the same drawer. "Here you go, pet."

"Thanks." Kitchen ain't exactly private so I shut myself in the dry goods pantry. Tapping out the numbers I learn that Jessie's cell ain't switched on. I try the two other numbers but no one picks up. Damn! Gonna hafta wait for her to contact the school after all. I return to the main kitchen, narrowing my eyes against the sunlight shining directly through the tall window.

"Did you reach her?"

I shake my head in reply to Maggie's question. "Jessie and her folks are probably at the hospital or something. When she rings I wanna talk to her, 'kay?"

"Of course."

One-eye's slouched on a stool, nursing a half full mug of coffee, face as rigid as a toilet seat. Posture's too stiff to be casual and it's evident he ain't no happy camper. Could be the marks on his face that don't look so bad now Moira's cleaned them up. Wonder if that's the source small but fundamental conflict of emotions going on within him? The jumble of pheromones contain mostly anger and grief with a smattering of less prominent baggage. There's guilt there too, ebbing and receding. Right now it's reached a small peak. Wonder what the fuck that's about?

Raising the cup to his stern lips he gulps down a coupla mouthfuls of coffee. Turns out it's a bit of Costa Rican courage. "Tell me, Logan. How the hell did a beer swilling, degenerate hoser like you win over a sweet, intelligent girl like Jessica Commeau?"

To an untrained ear the words might sound like friendly banter but he ain't a friend and he can't hide his bitterness from me. The smile on One-eye's pan is pained and now there's a faint whiff of envy underlying his mixed emotions. What the fuck is this? He got the hots for Jessie? If this is true it ain't compatible with his continuing good health. He's waiting for the dumb Canuck to give him a reply. Well I got one for him.

"Animal attraction and a mutual interest in good beer and kicking ass." The mind-blowing sex is a detail I'll keep to myself. As for the rest, the way I feel when I'm with Jessie, that's none of his fucking business either.

One-eye chokes on his coffee. "Well I was pretty certain she hadn't been dazzled by your acumen, immaculate grooming and sophistication."

"Guess that puts you outta the running then, huh Cyke."

I grin nastily, enjoying the irony of the situation; how our roles have been reversed. Then I remember the expression on Jeanie's face the instant before thousands of tons of water crushed the life from her and my satisfaction crumbles to ash.

Maggie's gaze is flicking between One-eye and me, following the verbal tennis match. She ain't comfortable with this line of conversation. The empath in her must've picked up on Summers' emotions so she knows that I know he's gone sweet on Jessie. Forehead creased by a worried frown, her gaze settles on me.

"Well doesn't time fly. It's almost time for your next class, Scott and I really must begin the preparations for dinner." She wrinkles her nose. "And I'm certain there's something important you intended to do, pet." This time her smile is diluted by anxiety, her empathic projection is politely suggesting Summers and I leave.

One-eye, his attention focussed on me, ain't listening. "So is this the part where you tell me to stay away from your girl?" His lips twitch into a ghost of a smirk.

Gonna wipe that fucking smirk off his face. "My girl? Ya think I own her like she's some fucking dog? That's your bag, Beam Boy. Ain't mine."

"Logan, is there any real need for such language?" Maggie's aiming to distract me. I flick her a shut the fuck up glance and turn my attention back to Summers.

Spine now ramrod straight, body bristling with resentment, One-eye puts his cup on the counter. "What's the matter, Logan? No stomach for commitment?"

That the best he can do? Is the mighty Fearless Leader so fucking clueless he ain't discovered that underestimating the opposition gets a chunk bitten outta his ass?

"What do you care? She's just some slut I picked up in a bar ain't she? Just a lowlife piece o' tail whose no good ass ya was plain itching to kick off the premises not a few days past. So tell me Cyke. Explain how come all of a sudden ya think she's too good for me?"

Damn, that stonewall expression of his is good. Pity about his body chemistry though. It'll betray him every time.

"You remember that conversation do you?" he sneers. "And to think I was worried your selective amnesia might have been too selective."

Diversion. He's on the run. "Your point being, asswipe?"

"Enough!" Maggie proclaims loudly as she launches herself to her feet. "Stop this right now. Your stupid peeing contest has created enough atmospheric testosterone to put hair on the chests of the entire female cast of Desperate Housewives. And then some!"

I look at Maggie, amazed by her outburst. She watches that crap? "I wanna know how exactly Jessie's status got elevated from gutter-trash to homecoming queen." Turning my malevolent stare on Summers I demand, "C'mon, Beam Boy. Enlighten me."

"Logan, no one believes Jessica is a slapper. Scott was merely concerned about the risk to security she posed. Frankly, after what happened with Stryker, it's wise to be cautious."

"Don't give me that, Maggie. You of all people. Until he checked her out he thought any broad eager to get wild with the Wolverine had to be the type any decent guy'd climb trees to avoid. Ain't that so, Cyke?" I take another deep draught of beer without breaking eye contact with Summers.

"You're imagining things. I never said that."

On the defensive. Good. Now let's see ya twitch.

"My nose don't lie, Summers. Yer contempt was oozing through yer pores like sweat. Not only that, ya said my mind was clouded by her fuckability, not a description ya'd use to describe a sweet, intelligent girl like Jessica Commeau. What's clouded your mind, jerk-off? A good zip code and the fact her family's moderately well off?"

"Can you believe this? The man who openly tried to steal my fiancée has the gall to question _my_ integrity?"

That's it. Squirm ya little shithawk. Since arriving in this dump two wonderful things happened to me. I met Jeannie and then I found Jessie. Ya made damn sure one remained outta my reach and now ya wanna put moves on the other?

"Ya call that integrity? Her family having money suddenly makes her less of a whore in your eyes? Ya knock a few points off coz she and I already got up close and personal? Didja? How about I knock something off of you?"

One-eye's on his feet, tensed for action. "That's your answer to everything, isn't it? If it gets in your way or pisses you off you smash it to a pulp or rip it to bloody shreds. Sooner or later Jessica is going to get sick of your knuckle-dragging caveman attitude and what then, Logan? When the inevitable happens and she walks away are you gonna smash her too?"

Ain't pissed. I'm way beyond pissed. Clarity, born of an icy calmness, guides my actions and I lash out, sinking my fist into One-eye's gut. Displaced abdominal organs put pressure on his diaphragm, squeezing the air out of his lungs with an explosive whoosh tainted by a fetid mixture of coffee and mouthwash. As he doubles over and falls back onto his stool I kick it from under him, toppling him to the floor like a sack of shit, where he proceeds to curl around his agony while attempting to fill his lungs with a series of very shallow inhalations. Tears are leaking from beneath his visor and dribbling down skin turned florid by his suffering.

Bend, don't break. Discipline, conditioned by years of cage fighting, ensures that Summers ain't damaged, just bruised and winded. He's lucky I didn't pulp his fucking liver for what he said. Reaching down I grab two handfuls of retro-prep Abercrombie & Fitch and haul the bastard to his feet where he hangs limply, his weight sapping the last of my strength. Desperately enervated, it takes all my willpower not to pant from extreme exertion. Ain't showing alpha-dick any weakness.

"Guess what, fuckwit," I hiss between gritted teeth. "This is me living down to yer expectations. Now gimme a reason not to break yer heroic fucking jaw."

Springing to alertness he snaps out, "How about this?"

Lightning reflexes bring his hand up to his visor and a concussive optic beam smashes into my chest with the force of a runaway train. Time slows to a crawl as I somersault across the kitchen, the world tumbling crazily around me. Maggie's screaming something but my ears are ringing too loudly to pick out anything coherent. My unscheduled flight is cruelly and very suddenly halted. With a dull clang my head strikes a sharp, unyielding metal edge with enough force to make me see stars. Falling to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs I lie there stunned, my vision growing alarmingly dim. I can smell blood. Mine. It's trickling warmly along my scalp from the point of impact. I want to test the lump but my arm won't work. Nothing does.

I can't believe this is happening. I shoulda seen it coming; shoulda read his body language, sensed the electro-chemical trigger firing his muscles into instantaneous action. Must be losing my fucking touch.

The sound of footfalls is heading my way, too heavy to be Maggie.

"Guess what, you shambling Cro-Magnon creep," One-eye's voice is wheezing, a deliberate effort to talk no matter how much it hurts. "That was me living up to your crack about being a one trick pony. Got anymore brilliant observations?"

"This is insane," Maggie screeches. "Stop this at once." A second set of footfalls heads my way. "Logan! Oh my god…"

She's interrupted by a loud and very feral snarl. As the world fades to black I catch a quick glimpse of something angry and very hairy cannoning into Summers.

"Don't," I manage to croak out. "He ain't worth it..."

-o0o-

The pillow cushioning my head is damp with sweat and smells of Jessie and a miasma of less pleasant smells, including bamf stink. Her scent is oddly muted, like it's had time to fade yet her warm body is entangled with mine.

I have a vague feeling that something's wrong, that I did something incredibly stupid but the details are fuzzy and refuse to come into the light of reason. More immediately, I realise that something ain't quit right. The person snuggled up to me neither feels nor smells as she should. Fully awake my senses go into overdrive. My arms are wrapped protectively around a warm body but the tousled head nestled next to my chest ain't Jessie, its…

"Rahne!"

In my haste to back away I tumble off the bed. My bed. In my room. Disoriented I scramble away, crabbing across the floor until I reach the solid reassurance of a panelled walled which I slump against, my heart bashing against my ribs like an animal trying to break free from it's cage.

What the fuck have I done?

"Jeezus!"

What the hell's the kid doing in my bed? Moira's gonna kill me. Maybe it's better if I just kill myself.

"Logan?"

Moira's voice! Close. Very close. In here! With me! With Rahne!

I start guiltily, fighting the urge to beat down the door and run screaming into the distance. "I…I didn't," I choke out. My nose twitches, testing the air for a certain incriminating scent, mercifully finding nothing. "I wouldn't!"

"I know." Moira, looking tired and dishevelled, makes a face as she eases her legs from underneath her. Looks like she's cramped from sleeping in the chair.

The figure curled up on the bed stirs and blinks sleepy green eyes. Smiling, she stretches languorously, smoothing the kinks from her muscles with a feral grace. She's relaxes and there's a sense of a job well done. She ain't nervous about being in my presence. Well there's a surprise. I sniff her suspiciously. The last time I saw her she was going for Summers. Can't smell blood, just satisfaction. Looks like she's discovered control.

Don't answer any questions though. "What the hell's going on? Why's the kid here? For that matter why are you here?"

Moira don't answer straightaway. She takes a few moments to compose herself before settling more comfortably in the chair. Finally, "Scott demanded you be placed in restraints. Rahne decided that wasnae gonnae happen and refused tae leave yeh side. Maggie arranged for Kurt tae 'port yeh both here and Rahne and I have both kept watch over yeh. Yeh relapsed intae another healing coma eighteen hours ago and yeh fever broke in the wee hours o' the morning. I'm thinking yer internal clock set the alarm for breakfast time."

She looks at Rahne, her expression a complex mask of emotions. I smell reproach warring with pride. I wait, expecting her to expand on her explanation but nothing else is forthcoming. Looks like I hafta accept the micro-abridged version for now.

I look at Rahne. "Ya did all that for me, kid?"

"Aye, and I'd do it again," she says defiantly. I catch a disapproving gleam in Moira's eye.

"How are yeh feeling lad?"

Dog tired but I ain't about to admit that. Ain't too pleased about getting my ass kicked by One-eye but let's not go there, huh? Got a vague headache like I've been beaten about the skull with a baseball bat wrapped in a pillow. I probe for the lump but my healing factor has dealt with it, the only physical proof it was there is the blood matting my hair. I know I gave Summers some minor internal bruising so I reckon he's wishing he had a healing factor right now. He got off light.

"Like I lost an argument with a domestic appliance. Hope my head didn't cause any lasting damage or Maggie'll kick my ass all the way back to Canada."

"I can give yeh something for the pain."

"No need." A memory rises to the surface. The cause of the fight. Oh shit! "I missed Jessie's call."

"Dinnae fash yersel' about it, lad. I spoke tae the lassie yesterday and told her yer on the mend. There were a few tears of relief and she sent her love and promised tae see yeh as soon as possible. Her father will be undergoing the surgery very shortly so she'll give yeh a call when it's all over."

Jessie sent her love? She said that? "Thanks, Moira." My head feels clear for the first time…in how long? My belly is a deep and empty pit that craves food but the need to shower has become urgent. How the hell the kid could stomach being near me all night is beyond me. "Ya wanna do me a real big favour, Moira?"

Smiling she replies, "Maggie's waiting for my call. I take it yeh want the works?"

Am I that transparent? Or has she found a talent for reading minds? She's right on the button of course. The works is what Maggie calls a full English breakfast. "Make it a double order. No triple."

"I've seen the size of Maggie's works specials, Logan. Yeh'll make yersel' sick so let's not overindulge just yet One portion will be more than enough for now."

"Whatever," I growl. Climbing to my feet I head for the bathroom. Washing ain't the only urgent function I need to perform in there.

"It's best yeh eat up here for now so I'll arrange tae have a tray sent up. Come along, hen, let's leave Logan tae his ablutions." Taking Rahne by the hand the two head for the door. Just before she leaves, Moira halts and looks back over her shoulder.

"We need tae talk."

"It can wait." Won't make a speck of difference. Ain't got the heart to tell her that as soon as I've eaten I'm quitting this fucking madhouse. My first stop will be Arlington. After that…who knows?

**The story continues in Full Metal Anarchy – coming soon!**


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